


Count Me Among Thy Saints

by ampersang, FuturePSotUS



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-01 05:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14513442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersang/pseuds/ampersang, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuturePSotUS/pseuds/FuturePSotUS
Summary: After Sherlock jumps he has to track down the rest of Moriarty's network and eliminate them. What if Mycroft had tagged along?The brothers will fight, make up, and fight again. They'll also encounter danger and experience the thrill of the chase.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ampersang and I originally wrote this story in 2014 during the Great Hiatus. Since then it's twice gone through editing and is now something we want to share beyond our Google Drives. We hope you enjoy.

> _ Mycroft, _
> 
> _ I hope you weren’t too tedious about allowing Molly to approach you after the service. I think I’ve forced her into more deception in the last three days than she’s practised in the last twenty-eight years of her life.  _
> 
> _ I’m alive.  _
> 
> _ Obviously.  _
> 
> _ Stop shouting at Molly, Mycroft. It’s not her fault. Don’t tell me you’re asking her for proof? I’m Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. I’m also your brother. If anyone is capable of pulling off their own death it’s me. _
> 
> _ Apologise to Molly for shouting at her. Do it, Mycroft.  _
> 
> _ Better. _
> 
> _ Some business. I’m alive (repetition, how boring). No doubt my phone and the recording I made of my conversation on the roof with Moriarty has made its way into your hands. Don’t let it be published.  _
> 
> _ My name must remain sullied until I can track down the rest of Moriarty’s web. He went too far and he made threats that cannot be realised. I have to make sure his final orders are never fulfilled.   _
> 
> _ As you read this, I’ll have stepped on a ferry to France. From there I’ll follow the one lead I have. It will lead to another as they always do.  _
> 
> _ Why let you into the plan now? Because while it pains me to admit it,  my preparations have been too hasty and I have loose ends that need tieing before my return. Who better than you, my brother, the British government, to do so?  _
> 
>   1. _Watch over Molly. She cannot sustain the fiction of my death on her own._
> 

>   1. _Regularly check on John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I don’t know how often I’ll be able to check in, but when I do I expect thorough updates._
> 

>   1. _Do not release any details about Richard Brooke/ Jim Moriarty that could redeem my name. Doing so can only jeopardise my life._
> 

>   1. _If I run out of leads I’ll contact you for information. So quietly gather anything you come across regarding the remnants of Moriarty’s organization._
> 

> 
> _ Now go to the luncheon and try not to eat all of the cucumber sandwiches. And for God’s sake, Mycroft stop that with your face. There are bound to be spies at the service to make sure the deed is done, you’ll tip them off.  _
> 
> _ SH _

Like always, Sherlock had gotten one thing wrong. Miss Hooper had waited to give Mycroft the letter until after the luncheon and he didn’t read it until he’d returned home. Mycroft crumpled and uncrumpled the document for the third time, frowning to himself as the words came back into view. Miss Hooper was gone. The sound of her idling cab no longer plagued his troubled mind, but the silence of his empty home offered no respite.

His immediate instinct had been to call for operatives to fetch Sherlock, and even now, days later, he found himself toying with the phone safely tucked in the pocket of his dressing gown. He scanned the letter again, reinterpreting the messages, willing himself to be calm even as his breath came in short gasps and his hands shook.

The politician’s hands covered his face.  Three days of unkempt stubble coated his jawline, and beneath his eyes was sore and tender from lack of sleep. A wave of nausea washed over him as he turned and turned a single word over in his mind.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

But how?

He had seen the corpse. He’d personally confirmed that the body in the morgue was his brother. For three days he’d agonized over it, plagued by images of his empty eyes, cold white hands, and blood, thicker and redder than wine…. He’d drowned in it, suffocated in it, died along with Sherlock.

Sherlock, his baby brother, his greatest failure.

And the stupid bastard was alive.

_ HOW? _

His heart was shattering again, afraid that this was an elaborate hoax, an enemy preying on his fragile state…But there was Sherlock, written all over the paper. Sharp tongue, sharper mind, and completely oblivious to the severity of his tone. Ninety three percent business, seven percent insult. Zero sensitivity.

If what he’d written was true, Sherlock was in France. The politician had half a mind to contact the French police, but knew rightfully that Sherlock would slip by them. He’d gotten this far. Really, his only option was to wait until Sherlock contacted him again.

His head leaned back to rest against his chair, as he felt another swell of nausea build within him. The game was supposed to be over…Apparently, they were still in play.

He was exhausted.


	2. Chapter 2

**To: m_holmes@dsux.co.uk**

**From: [BLOCKED]**

**Subject: Secure Connection**

 

Mycroft,

I appreciate the restraint you showed by not involving the French authorities. It would have been horribly embarrassing for all parties involved when I evaded custody both entering and exiting the country. 

I have reached a safe house, the first of many in the coming months. I will stay here as I follow the leads I currently have on Moriarty’s web. What I know now comes from my Homeless Network so I’m unsure how long it will be before I move on. Their information is always a mix of truth and exaggeration. 

This is a permanent secure address created for me by one of my network. Who, by the way, is far faster and smarter than the goons you hire. You may want to consider employing him. He goes by Pisser Jack and he can be found under the Dartford Tunnels. You may reach out to me here at any point and I will respond when possible and necessary. As I said Mycroft, I expect updates on John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly. Regularly. 

You’ve had two days, what information do you have on the organization of the web? I’ll need as much as you can gather in order to gauge what sort of loyalties I’m up against. 

 

**To: [BLOCKED]**

**From: [m_holmes@dsux.co.uk]**

**Subject: I’ve written you out of my will.**

 

Darling Brother,

With a disappearing act like that, you should consider joining the circus!

I have limited information for you. I’m not interested in helping you with your homework anymore.

Doctor Watson, your landlady, and the DI are fine.

The web is expansive, held in place by powerful men in powerful places. With Moriarty gone, you can bet it will degenerate quickly, on its own. They’ll be their own undoing. Stepping into the fray, especially in your position, would be foolish.

You are just one man, Sherlock. Perhaps it’s finally time to start acting like it.

MH

 

**To: [m_holmes@dsux.co.uk]**

**From: [BLOCKED]**

**Subject: If only I wanted your money.**

 

Aren’t you too old for such petty sentiment? I already told you why I had to “die.” Or don’t you think saving three lives with only a small measure of deception was worth it? 

As for letting the web disintegrate on its own, I refuse to take the chance that there won’t be one or two strong-willed individuals willing to work to hold together what remains. If managed, it would be well worth any time and investments they’d put in. You need to get over your wounded pride and dig deeper for me. I’m hearing persistent rumors of a successor. 

Just one man Mycroft? What other solution would you propose? Send some of your goons with guns to Moriarty’s non-existent headquarters? This is a one man job, and who better to perform it than the world’s only consulting detective. 

P.S. For future reference, ‘fine’ is not an acceptable update.

 

**To: [BLOCKED]**

**From: [M_Holmes@dsux.co.uk]**

**Subject: My money will seem terribly friendly once your funds dip.**

 

You underestimated Moriarty, and three people’s lives are in danger because of it. Do not misjudge the men that James kept closest. You are in over your head to the point that you are drowning, and still you’re flailing your arms as if it will make some sort of a difference. You cannot do this alone. You are brilliant, but your very nature bears the hallmark of your lowly origins; you’re human. You have limits.

If you’re going to fight this fight you’ll need an ally. Seeing as your right hand man is caught in the crossfire, as is your DI friend, I do believe you’re stuck with me. Isn’t the idea deplorable?

Consider for a moment, the ramifications of everything that has transpired. Look at what we’ve created.

This is the last time I’m going to say this- stop now. It’s worth it. If you plan on continuing, expect a babysitter.

 

**To: [M_Holmes@dsux.co.uk]**

**From: [BLOCKED]**

**Subject: I’ve lived without money before, I can certainly do it again**

 

Don’t be an idiot, you’re proposing to do what exactly? I’ll shake any agent you put on me. So what is your alternative, personally follow me around Europe? The world? Leave your comfortable club and its silence to live on the streets amid the noise and dirt of the average man? Don’t be foolish, you’re far more useful to me behind your desk than you ever would be in the field. 

I  **WILL NOT** come home and sit in some safe house with John and the others while your people bumble about the globe attempting to clean up my mess. I underestimated Moriarty. I assumed he was rational and logical. I didn’t account for his insanity. I didn’t listen when you tried to warn me. Does it make you happy to hear a list of my faults? Does watching those I care about suffer because of my mistake make you feel superior, oh wise older brother? 

I will clean up this mess and until I do I am tasking you to make sure that John keeps steady, Mrs. Hudson stays safe, and Lestrade remains alive. If you choose not to provide information to help me I will get along without. I’ve always been able to do so. But you will protect them. You will make sure they all make it through this unscathed. You owe me that much at least. 

 

**To: [BLOCKED]**

**From: M_Holmes@dsux.co.uk**

**Subject: That’s enough now.**

 

This isn’t about me feeling superior. This isn’t about putting you in your place. This isn’t an attempt to micromanage your life, to make you feel guilty, to undo past mistakes.

It has always been, and will always be, my duty as your brother to watch over you, even when you don’t desire my assistance. Know this; the clubs and offices of the London elite offer no solace if my mind is constantly fretting over the impetuous, ill fated manhunt you are conducting. 

You may have full access to my information, but I will only offer it in person. Where shall I meet you?

 

**To: [M_Holmes@dsux.co.uk]**

**From: [BLOCKED]**

**Subject: El Lateral, Plaza Santa Ana, Madrid, Spain**

 

13:00, day after tomorrow. 


	3. Chapter 3

**[SMS 12:56PM CET]** Describe your location. I’m nearby, don’t see you. M

At twenty to the hour Sherlock entered the Plaza and stationed himself at a bar. He’d been productive in the last week, tracking down his leads to uncover new information. He’d also dyed his hair and radically changed his wardrobe. As he wandered into the bustling restaurant and sat at a table Sherlock looked exactly like a non-native local, totally at ease in his surroundings. 

He watched Mycroft enter, but decided to wait to see if his brother could find him in the crowded room. If the only person who had known him from birth couldn’t recognize him in plain view then he knew he’d crafted a successful disguise. 

Mycroft scanned the restaurant right to left and back again before pulling out his mobile. Moments later Sherlock’s phone vibrated and pulling it out he was simultaneously impressed and annoyed that Mycroft had found his new number. 

Taking a moment of smug self-congratulations, Sherlock rose and hailed Mycroft in fluent Spanish and with just enough brotherly familiarity to fool anyone watching. 

Imperiously waiving a waiter over and ordering for both himself and his brother, Sherlock waited for Mycroft to settle and for their drinks to arrive before he spoke again, this time in English, “As you can see I’m both alive and well. So what exactly was the point of your visit?”

Mycroft peered hawkishly over a pair of thick rimmed glasses to examine his brother carefully. The politician had taken less care with his own disguise, but then, people weren’t looking for him. A simple change of wardrobe had done the job; tilley hat, floral patterned shirt, cutoff shorts, calf-high socks, and birkenstocks. With an overly large camera slung around his neck, and sun kissed skin blooming with freckles, he looked nothing like himself.

His expression as he scrutinised his brother’s face was unreadable. It was as though he were searching for something below the surface, something unreachable. After a moment he gave up, shook his head, and glanced down at his hands.

“You’re right. You’re just the same as always. I should have never doubted you.”

He reached out for his  _ Agua Fresca _ , but instead of drinking fiddled with the straw. Who knew what kind of bacteria was floating around in the ice? No, he wouldn’t consume any water here.

_ Here, here in bloody Spain, why did it have to be Spain? He probably picked Spain on purpose, the git. I’m sure he knows all about the ‘09 incident in Madrid… _

“I’m here to do what I said I was going to do, dear brother. I am, after all, a man of my word. I intend to help you. And the sooner we sort this out, the sooner I can go home.”

Sherlock refused to give Mycroft the satisfaction of acknowledging his ridiculous ‘disguise’. Let the man make a fool of himself, Sherlock would not validate him. “Oh just drink the damn drink,” he spat at his brother, “It won’t kill you. If you’re lucky you’ll get sick and lose some weight.” 

Taking an exaggerated sip at his own drink to prove a point Sherlock continued, “Now, that we agree that I’m alive please explain to me how is it you believe you can help me by sitting in a cafe, which you don’t frequent, in a country that you hate, working with a brother that you’ve always felt was more trouble than he was worth?”

He pushed even further, “I don’t see any papers on you. Didn’t you bring any information? I told you I only had a thin amount of information. Did you at least bring me some news from London?”

“Yes, because I most definitely wander the streets of foreign countries carrying highly classified documents,” Mycroft scoffed, rolling his eyes a bit. “Everything is safe within my head.”

He continued to ignore his drink, but added, “I’m not going to give it to you all at once, because you’ll simply brush me away and set off on your own. I want assurance that we’ll work together on this.”

He withdrew a small notebook and a pen from his breast pocket, and ripped out one of the pieces of paper. On it, he had drawn the outlines of a chess board, each piece on the black side of the board clearly marked with initials.

“Here. My end of the bargain. Each piece represents one of the members of Moriarty’s web. I’ll reveal their full names and details as I see fit.”

He pushed the paper towards Sherlock, and added, “Your friends are still struggling. But they are alive, and doing the best that they can. You meant a lot to them, you know.”

Reacting to his brother bargaining information for access by rolling his eyes, Sherlock mocked Mycroft, “This is so mature of you, I’m glad to see you trust me so much, really I’m touched. But chess, really? How… well I’d say it’s trite, but it is just so  _ you _ .”

He studied the notebook paper for a full minute before looking up and throwing it down on the table exasperated, ”I hate chess. It’s stupid and it’s boring and it’s dull and it takes FOREVER. Why do you want to draw this process out? Just tell me what I want to know and I’ll finish that much faster.” 

“Chess is the perfect metaphor,” Mycroft bristled a bit, glaring at his brother. “Like it or not, James has built himself a small army of individuals to both maintain and defend his empire. This allows us to prioritize.”

He withdrew a pen from his pocket, and dragged the paper closer to him.

“Besides, I was bored on the flight over.”

He studied his drawing for a moment, before continuing.“The man who holds the position of Queen is beyond either of us at the present moment. He’s incredibly dangerous, and although his mental alacrity is nowhere near that of James’, he’s bright, and he’s a fighter. I’m quite sure he’s monitoring London. He’ll require further surveillance before he can be approached.”

“I suggest focusing your attention on this one,” he said pointedly as he gestured to the left handed bishop. “Ronald Adair. He’s power hungry, and intent on unifying the remaining bits of the web for his own benefit. But he’s hardly an intellectual. To deal with him now would be wise.”

Snatching the chess board out of Mycroft’s hand, Sherlock again studied the piece of paper. “Adair, he’s the less than prodigal son of a retired Army Colonel, correct? Compulsive gambler, and not the winning kind. He’s lost the family fortune and kept going. Unless he has some hidden depth about him I doubt he’ll prove all that difficult to dispose of.”

Tapping the Queen’s spot on the board, Sherlock tried to dissuade Mycroft from following him, “And anyway, it’s only been a week. I can’t return to London yet, especially if the heir apparent has lookouts posted. I’ll have to wait until things have died down some before I can return and begin.” Bluffing he continued, “Three weeks should be sufficient time to wait before I returning. Perhaps I’ll take some time to head to Prague, I’d heard tell that the Gollom is there, or maybe South America, I wasn’t really in my right mind last time I visited. It could prove useful to see drug fields while not sampling their products…” 

Trailing off he pretended to realise Mycroft still sat across from him at the table, “All right, I accept your offer of support as well as your terms to check in regularly. Once it’s safe I’ll begin with Adair. Any other sage advice while I’m feeling generous?" 

“Yes, here’s some advice,” Mycroft leaned a bit closer, looking him straight in the eyes, “Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again.”

His tone was even, but it was clear just how upset he still was. Dealing with the unexpected loss of Sherlock had damn near broken the politician. 

He knew what his brother meant and could envision a multitude of repercussions if he ever attempted to disappear again, but Sherlock refused to acknowledge the sentiment. “I’m flattered in your confidence in me, but managing to convince the world I’d died twice? Hardly likely.”

Point made Mycroft leaned back, settling against the leather of his chair. “You wanted to play the game, and here it is. Now let’s finish it, and go home victorious. It may be new for you, but I’ve been playing much longer, and I’ve grown tired of it.”

"You make it sound as if you still intend to travel with me? People will notice, you know, if both Holmes brothers disappear. And as hard as you’ve tried, neither of us are completely invisible.”

Stopping to think for a moment, Sherlock realised he hadn’t yet wondered just how Mycroft had managed to sneak away to Spain in the first place. Quickly glancing around to double check that no one was watching them, Sherlock’s head snapped back to his older brother, “How did you get away to find me?” 

“My brother just committed suicide, I’m on an extended leave of absence. What heartless bastard would question that?”

He glanced down at his hands. Although it was no longer necessary, given the circumstances, his initial hiatus from work had been legitimate. The grief he’d experienced upon learning of Sherlock’s ‘death’ had been consumptive. He couldn’t have worked if he’d tried.

“And look, England prevails. Perhaps I’m more expendable than I’d like to imagine.”

He picked  over the food that had arrived while they argued, but didn’t have much of an appetite. His paella seemed dry and flavorless, and clung to his throat as he swallowed. It was a chronic problem these days, not a real testament to the quality of the cantina. He knew it was a symptom of the depression he’d been battling, and because of that forced himself to eat. He needed the calories and the energy.

“I’ve  taken care of everything.” Gesturing down at his shirt, he said, “I can get a better cover than this. It won’t be the Holmes brothers traveling together, it’ll be Christian Bordelon and….What are you going by, these days?”

“Sigerson, just Sigerson,” Sherlock announced and held out his hand as if introducing himself for the first time.

He didn’t wait for Mycroft to shake. Standing, Sherlock threw enough money to cover the meal onto the table, “I assume you’ve got luggage somewhere then?” he said. “Gather up what you can carry, tone down that ridiculous costume of yours, and meet me in an hour at the Madrid Atocha, we’ve a train to catch.”

God help him, he was going to let Mycroft tag along. 


	4. Chapter 4

Despite his harsh words an hour earlier, Sherlock saw the wisdom of his brother’s advice. He knew from experience that before he ever opened his mouth his face drew attention. His musings were confirmed when, as he stood under the 11-M memorial waiting Mycroft’s arrival, approximately 76% of women and 40% of men took at least a glance as they passed. 

Sex, how tedious. 

"Ah, Christian, good to meet you," he greeted Mycroft, pulling the man in for a hug and kiss to the cheek. “Sigerson, we spoke on the phone last week? I see you’re all set? We’ve a train to catch so shall we go?"

Giving him no time to answer Sherlock took the bag from Mycroft’s hand and strode off chattering about the weather. He easily steered them both around the massive station, to their platform, and into a private compartment on a train. 

Mycroft had rejoined Sherlock in a timely fashion, carrying only a small suitcase and a rucksack. A dramatic change had occurred within their hour apart; his tourist outfit had been replaced with things that looked weather-worn and relaxed. A far cry from Mycroft’s tailored suits, these clothes had been taken from a thrift shop. While they looked smart, the air about him now suggested a man who worked professionally, but struggled to maintain his lifestyle. His usual polished features had been washed free of foundation, revealing a freckled and ruddy complexion. A pair of glasses were perched upon his nose, and his dark locks had been recolored to a brownish-red. To anyone who knew Mycroft Holmes, politician, he was almost unrecognizable. Yet, to Sherlock, the man moving through the turnstile would have appeared more like the Mycroft he’d known growing up than anything else.

He nodded and shook Sherlock’s hand, exchanging a few offhanded greetings before following his brother into their compartment.

Once the door was closed Sherlock dropped the facade, “We’ve a little more than five hours before we reach our destination. If you want to sleep feel free, I’ll stay awake and keep watch."

The bureaucrat scoffed as Sherlock spoke.

“Please, I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to,” Mycroft muttered, sliding his luggage under the seat.

After a moment, he produced a laptop from his rucksack and opened it. Propping it on his legs, he focused on the machine, rather than on the man that sat across from him.

“Why are we going to Seville?” he questioned, licking his lips as he waited for the computer to boot up.

Sherlock resisted the urge to tut at his brother’s immediate dismissal of sleep. Mycroft was a grown man, and one with anxiety issues, he knew far better than most his body’s limits. If his insomnia slowed them down too much while hunting, Sherlock would bring the subject up. For the moment, he was wary of breaking the truce that had sprung up between them. 

Similarly, he tamped down the instinctual need to double check that no one could trace Mycroft’s laptop. While Sherlock had not had enough time to prepare everything he needed for the journey, the politician had. It would only insult the other man to question his security precautions. Instead before speaking Sherlock focused his mind and body by putting his own small rucksack in the rack while pulling an mp3 player and aviator sunglasses out of his coat pockets. 

"I’ve a contact there I need to speak with about travel routes. But really, it’s as good a place as any to lie low for a few days."

Popping the earbuds in and sliding the glasses up his node, Sherlock swung his feet onto the bench and leaned back against the train window for all purposes looking like nothing more than another backpacker trekking across Europe. 

While Mycroft had meticulously dyed his hair and changed his complexion, Sherlock had spent his time changing his entire demeanor. Casual travel clothes complimented a laid back smile and slightly rounded shoulders.  Sensible shoes paired perfectly with a soft voice and sweet tongue. These slight adjustments had done as much to create an unrecognizable person as Mycroft’s glasses and freckles. 

Chopin emitted softly from his headphones as Sherlock pressed play, “I’m napping. Don’t wake me unless you see an assassin," he said as he closed his eyes. 

“Mmm, rousing you upon our arrival should be hilarious,” Mycroft muttered in response, tapping passwords into his system.

He glanced over at his brother after a moment, watching his still form in silence. There was still a part of him that didn’t believe his sibling was here and, in the most literal sense, safe. It was a surreal thing, sitting beside his brother who by all legal records was dead.

His eyes trailed back down to his screen after a moment. The next several hours would be spent doing light governmental work and sending off messages to low-level civil servants. He still had some loose ends to tie up at home, and for the moment he felt focused enough to take care of them.

Once his work had been completed and his Chief of Staff informed of his goals, he closed the computer and settled down to relax. Even if he didn’t sleep, a bit of down-time was in order. Who knew how long it’d be before he had this opportunity again?

He leaned his head against the side of the car, content to listen to the rhythmic plink of the wheels on the tracks until they reached their destination.

Across the car, Sherlock had fallen into a light sleep using the tempo rubato Chopin relied so beautifully on to prevent himself from sinking totally in Morpheus’ arms.

* * *

 

Two hours later the younger brother woke and slowly rotated his shoulders and neck to straighten out the kinks before resettling himself on the bench. With more than two thirds of the journey complete the detective decided to stay awake and switched the music of his iPod over to a playlist he’d stolen from John. As the Beatles mixed with the Rollings Stones, who in turn faded into the Allman Brothers Band, his thoughts naturally turned to his blogger. 

Not for the first time since he’d jumped, Sherlock wondered what John was doing. In London the late afternoon sun would have already begun to fade and as he left work John would turn up his coat collar to protect himself from the northeasterly winds that blew so strongly near the clinic. But would he have continued to work? Several weeks had passed since Sherlock had jumped. Enough time that others would expect him to begin moving on.

They hadn’t been lovers, as John quickly reminded anyone foolish enough to continue to assume otherwise. To grieve and remove himself from public life for too long would fuel the few rumors that had refused to die. Selfishly, Sherlock hoped his friend still struggled with the loss of his companion as much as Sherlock was currently struggling.

Realising he’d lost himself in thoughts of John for long enough that the train was pulling into the station at Seville, Sherlock firmly closed and barred the mental door on his room of John. He had jumped, and now he hunted, to protect the doctor. Allowing distracting thoughts of the man would only endanger him and defeat the purpose of that sacrifice. 

Accordingly, he drew the mantle of Sigerson around himself again and affably asked his brother, “Well, Christian, we’ve arrived, are you all packed back up?"

“Yes,” came Mycroft’s reply, flat with boredom. He’d given up on work over an hour ago, and with nothing to do but wait, he’d fallen into the ever-expansive chasm of apathy.

“Since when are you an Allman Brothers fan?” Mycroft wondered aloud. With no audio device of his own, he’d naturally focused in on the faint sound of his brother’s music. It seemed like an uncharacteristic choice for his sibling.

"It’s John’s," Sherlock mumbled. He stood and busied himself by taking his bag and opening the door. Striding out of the cabin, he led the way down out of the train and onto a crowded platform assuming Mycroft would follow. 

As they left the station and entered a crowded city center Sherlock put on his best tour guide voice, “Seville," he announced throwing out his arms slightly before stepping aside as if to let Mycroft soak in the wonders of the average city street. “In the time of the Phoenicians the city was known as Spal, during Roman occupation she went by Hispalis, and under the Moors her name was Ishbiliyya."

They wandered through the city and Sherlock pointed out the major landmarks, ostensibly to keep their facade up, but aware of his brother’s love of architecture. In the balmy weather the two walked rather than take any public transit. While Sherlock had a destination in mind they still had several hours before they were expected. To fill the time he had planned a route to take them past several of the most prominent examples of architecture the city had to offer. Even as he built in time for the duo to linger, Sherlock refused to consider why he was doing something nice for his brother. 

The stopped in front of the Cathedral of St. Mary and he watched Mycroft’s eyes travel over the intricate carvings on the west doors. Upon entering the main chapel, Sherlock follow Mycroft’s gaze upwards for more than thirty metres to where the gilded ceiling weaved intricate patterns across the chapel. They spent some time going to each of the front doors and Giralda, Sherlock stopping whenever Mycroft hesitated or his eyes stuttered on some particularly interesting architectural marvel. 

The two didn’t speak, silently walking side by side, their bags slung over their shoulders. Yet, unlike so many past silences this one hadn’t resulted from a fight. It rested comfortably between the men punctured only by occasional commentary on the stonework or the history of the building. 

From the Cathedral they moved on to Alcazar’s famous central courtyard and then to Metropol Parasol where the wooden slats wove around one another to form an amazing example of modern art married to engineering. The structure captured the politicians attention in a way Sherlock would never understand. 

“It’s sort of like a massive honeycomb, don’t you think?” Mycroft crooned, voice peppered with interest and subdued delight. “I always wondered why they didn’t choose a hexagonal lattice pattern, but really, that may have just been too obvious…”

His eyes had been trained upward for most of the afternoon, reveling in the towering spires and graceful archways that varied so greatly from the endemic architecture of his beloved homeland. This was his religion; the indelible potential of man. Lost in his awe, for a few fleeting moments he found peace from his thoughts and troubles.

However, after the third or fourth hour of sightseeing, Mycroft began to wonder why they were visiting all of these places. They were meant to be in Seville on business, and while he was enjoying himself, he couldn’t help but feel as though they has wasted precious time.

Eventually, he simply asked.

“Sherlock…What exactly are we doing in Seville?”

Prepared for the question, Sherlock answered with an eye roll and snort he’d perfected at age eight, “As I’ve mentioned, several times, I’ve got a man to see. He’s in possession of hacking skills superior to what either of us possess. I want to set up a few watches on my- well I suppose our- names. See who’s looking for us, at us, and check to make sure no one gets suspicious."

While it went against his nature and everything about their fractious relationship he also admitted, “And I want him to monitor John’s internet usage while I’m away. Just in case…"

"And speaking of," the detective theatrically looked at his watch, “it’s time we’re off. One last stop for the day before we can settle in for the night. We can chase our first lead tomorrow.”

Knowing his brother would follow Sherlock set off, keeping his eyes open for a cab to hail. The sooner he could ensure that no one yet suspected his survival, and Mycroft’s involvement, the sooner he could begin to enjoy the chase and the thrill of the hunt. 

* * *

The hacienda Sherlock reserved was roomier than Mycroft expected, but that was where the elder sibling’s approval ended. Two small lamps with molding shades cast a faint glow over the room. They were of no real use, leaving great shadows over stuccoed walls, and Mycroft couldn’t help but note that the electrical lines were illegally installed and in no way up to code. The blankets on the two twin beds were thick and woollen. They were guaranteed to keep the politician up well into the night, plagued by irritated skin. He had to resist the urge to peel back the mattress coverlet and examine the box-spring for bed bugs. 

“Good lord, Sherlock, when I signed on for this adventure I didn’t realize we’d be living in squalor. It’s a damn good thing you aspired to be a detective, not a travel agent,” the man groused, lifting his bags onto a dresser so that they no longer touched the floor. 

He immediately shrugged off his ill-fitting jacket. The garment smelled faintly of someone else's cologne. The way the fabric was worn in places that didn’t hug his frame left him painfully aware that the piece was not his own. 

_ Estate sale. Professor. Drunkard. No family. Died young. _

He pushed away and compartmentalized his analysis. It was hardly important. This was just a disguise, there was no need for Savile Row. Regardless, he immediately hung the jacket, then toed off his shoes. They too were tucked safely out of sight in the closet. He then turned back to his bags, riffling through them for a toothbrush. A thin, scaly film had formed over his teeth; it had bothered him since lunch. Ducking into the WC, -and doing his very best to ignore a suspicious looking stain on the wall- he began to clean his teeth. 

The simple hygienic gesture left him feeling more like himself than he had for hours. He scrubbed meticulously, nearly obsessively, watching himself in the mirror as he brushed. 

“Running water even! You certainly know how to spoil a fellow,” he spat, rinsing away the foam that now coated the sink basin. He washed the brush then leaned forward, carefully studying his reflection.The civil servant had gotten a fair bit of color throughout the day, the peaks of his cheeks irritated by the bitter kiss of the Spanish sun. No doubt he’d be laughably freckled by the end of their spree. 

_ Brilliant. _

Sherlock wandered into the bathroom, ignoring his brother’s privacy, “For Christ’s sake,” he scoffed as the older man peered into the mirror, “This isn’t a sex holiday. You look fine, get over it.” Running his hands through his hair, Sherlock threw water over his face and gave his teeth a cursory brush before backing out again, “Come, we’ve got planning to do.”

“Sensitive as always,” Mycroft chided, unsure whether he was more perturbed with his brother’s comments, or the way he’d commandeered the sink. He resisted the urge to bump him out of the way and muttered, “You want to plan, let’s plan. You are the ringleader, I’m here to pay the bills.”

“How thoughtful,” the consulting detective drolled. He wandered back into the bedroom and sat gingerly on the bed, now stripped of all but the thinnest sheet. 

“Thankfully for us, Moriarty was a consummate businessman. We’ve roughly six to ten targets, the hardest to reach will be his second in command, the man to whom you gave the dubious position of Queen, Sebastian Moran.”

“Yes, Sherlock. Please give me something to actually work with. A destination, a plan; a proper target for the here and now.”

Mycroft had followed him back into the bedroom. His glasses were pushed up onto his forehead and he was rubbing his eyelids with his palms as he walked. His sleep debt was beginning to catch up with him, and part of him regretted not napping on the train. 

He laid down onto his bed, stretching out a bit, wincing as the tightness in his back forced him to readjust to the new position. 

“Oh yes, Mycroft, let me just draw you up a nice plan. I’ll make sure it includes diagrams and maps. Oh! I’ll even laminate it for you,” the detective replied testily. The long day, filled with his brother and absent of his blogger had worn the youngest Holmes down. Sherlock’s muscles felt sore and tight against his bones and his brain wanted to endlessly process still non-existent clues. In the silence after his sharp remark his forearm burned. He resisted scratching it.  

“You are the most-” Mycroft caught himself, breathing deeply to quell his frustration before continuing on with a slightly biting tone.

“Where are we going from here? If you don’t know, just bloody say so.”

“We’re headed to Marseilles,” Sherlock replied, the bite fading out of his tone. He smothered a yawn and tightened the muscles in his cheeks to prevent any others from coming through. “We’ve got a date tomorrow with Mademoiselle Margeaux Baillet. She runs guns for the web. After the Madame we’ll work our way East. I expect we’ll see Germany, perhaps Greece, and Russia at the very least. I don’t have any more details at the moment. Is that enough for now? Please, feel free to add your own information at any time.” 

“Yes. That will do.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and folded his arms over his chest before rolling away from Sherlock, turning their target’s name over in his mind. It was acutely familiar, he’d perhaps read her biography in passing during a security briefing, but he had no mental image of the woman they sought.    

As Sherlock reached over to turn off the light between the beds he had one last piece of advice, “Do try and actually sleep this time- you’re going to need it once we start.”

* * *

 

All too soon the sun peaked on the horizon and light crept into the dingy hotel room, illuminating everything that the brothers would rather not see. Blearily, Sherlock blinked and took a moment to reorient himself before climbing out of bed to get ready for the day. Having fulfilled his brotherly duties yesterday, the consulting detective didn’t hesitate to shake Mycroft awake, “We’ve got to leave in a hour. I’m going to coffee, you’re useless without caffeine. Be ready to leave when I get back.”

Mycroft swatted at him, emitting a deep rumble of annoyed acknowledgement. He was half awake already, having slept poorly, but his brother’s direct approach to rousing him was hardly motivating.

The promise of coffee eventually encouraged the Brit to turn back his bedsheets. He made a halfhearted attempt at stretching the ache from his back and shoulders before shuffling to the bathroom to begin his morning routine. By the time Sherlock returned, he has washed the sleep from his eyes and fixed his hair. He’d also redressed in the same clothes he’d worn the day before, and was busy picking lint pills out of the jacket. He glanced at his brother over the rim of his glasses, but offered no familiar greeting. Instead he reached for his coffee, gave it a once-over, and began to drink. He was halfway through the beverage when he finally asked,

“How will we be travelling?” 

Having handed over the beverage, Sherlock turned to the lightweight and untraceable laptop he’d picked up from his hacking friend the previous afternoon. He forced himself to double check their travel arrangements before allowing a quick look at John’s blog. At Mycroft’s question he looked up from the still un-updated homepage and rattled off the requested information without pause, “Plane today. Seville to Marseilles direct. Two hours and ten minutes. The airport is a forty minute taxi ride from here. Our plane leaves in three hours. Satisfactory?”

“As if I had a choice. Where did you get this coffee?” Mycroft frowned, swilling around the remaining liquid in his takeaway cup. He looked up at his brother, and although the man was seated so that his laptop’s screen was out of view, his posture and expression told the Elder Holmes that Sherlock was checking in on his old flatmate.

“If you can keep up on this trip you’ll get more of a say,” Sherlock stated. 

“This will be a lot easier if you put him out of your mind,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly, half tempted to close the device. “You can worry about him after the fact.”

“Yes, thank you. I’m sure I wouldn’t have known that without you being here to tell me,” snapped Sherlock. “Is that what you did with me? Did you put me out of your mind?”

Mycroft opened and closed his mouth several times, resisting the impulse to launch into a tirade highlighting all the ways Sherlock’s infatuation with his best friend differed from Mycroft’s mourning for his brother’s death. Part of him was consciously aware that with each moment wasted controlling his anger and searching for eloquence  his brother’s point was validated. If this conversation were punctuated with an “I told you so” from his younger sibling, it would surely devolve into the most immature of fights.

He swallowed his venom, and offered a level, “I processed it, compartmentalized it, and was ready to move on with my life. I suggest you do the same.” 

“Oh yes, of course,” Sherlock intoned. 

Surprisingly, he didn’t point out Mycroft’s his lie. The man who’d shown up in Madrid had showed every trace of still suffering from fresh trauma. But it wouldn’t do to call Mycroft out and risk a conversation about feelings. 

Sherlock instead set his face into a familiar series of hard lines, “If we’re going to make it through this there need to be rules. No John, no suicide. No references to childhood or Mummy, diets or drugs. Fair?”

“I only mentioned him because I believe it’s in your best interest, you’re always so keen to vilify me,” Mycroft groused, before conceding, “I’ll behave if you will.”

Tempted to make a final smart quip, Sherlock managed to refrain and instead gave one tight nod. Moving in a characteristic burst of energy he grabbed a worn cotton jacket off his bed and scooped his few possessions up into his backpack. “Very good. We’re in agreement. Time to leave?”

Mycroft, noting Sherlock’s hasty gathering of his belongings and quickened speech patterns, began tucking his few belongings away in his rucksack. Just a few moments behind his brother, he was prepared and ready to leave.

“Lead on, captain.”


	5. Chapter 5

The brothers stepped off the plane and taxied to a small inn, inexpensive, but on the water. The same sea breeze that played with the curtains kept the temperature a cool 25C. They set down their bags and without unpacking anything sat side by side on one of the beds with their computers on open to map the city and formulate a plan. 

“Moriarty’s gunrunner is a woman, full marks for equality there,” Sherlock quipped, “I believe her warehouse is around here,” he said, pointing to the map of Marseille on his screen. His finger zeroed in on an area firmly in the third arrondissement, on the water and right off the A55.

“The Tunnel de la Major cuts right through there, it’d be ideal for moving shipments during the night without attracting attention,” Mycroft thought aloud as he studied the map. “The warehouse has to be underground, yes? Anything at street level would be too risky.” 

He set his computer to the side for a moment to take his brother’s and flicked his fingers over the map, zooming in and out. He sighed, then passed the device back to Sherlock. 

“I recently lamented to a colleague that a holiday in France might be nice…” he muttered. “Gun runners weren’t really part of the plan.” 

He paused, then added, “Are you armed?” 

“Not yet,” a dangerous grin lit Sherlock’s face, “It seems a shame to waste time and money on getting a gun quickly when we’re about to have such a delightful array to choose from.”

“And what happens when trouble finds you before you’ve had the chance to select a weapon?” Mycroft replied flatly, unimpressed with his brother’s brash confidence. 

“I don’t need a gun to defend myself, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, his voice rising in pitch alongside with his annoyance. “Besides, unless you trip and make noise, I’m sure we’ll be able to find something to tide us over before we clear a bit of time to browse.”

A brief silence fell while the men continued looking through maps, “It’s kind of our Baillet to provide us with the tools we need to get rid of her.”

Mycroft frowned suddenly, looking up at his brother. His expression was difficult to read. There was concern, and just a hint of judgement written in the lines beneath his eyes. 

“Surely you don’t intend to kill her... We’ll disband the unit and alert the authorities.” 

“Of course I intend to kill her,” the consulting detective replied easily, not even looking up at his brother. “Moriarty may be dead, and Moran may not be his equal, but that doesn’t make him an idiot. If she lives she can escape. If she’s dead we’re done.”

“So you’ll appoint yourself her judge, jury, and executioner simply because she’s affiliated with James? Your naivety is showing,” Mycroft’s scowl deepened. “We have a system in place for dealing with criminals, and the system works. I didn’t think we were here to play vigilante.”

“You call Jim Moriarty’s acquittal by a jury of his so-called peers without bothering to offer any defense of himself the system working?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“James is the exception, not the rule!” Mycroft spat. “Fine. Fine. Do whatever you have to do. Just make sure you don’t tangle yourself in the web while trying to knock it down.”

Accidentally misunderstanding his brothers words, Sherlock shook his head forcefully, “I can assure you I’m in no danger of changing sides in this fight.” He stood, took his jacket off, and placed his computer on the small table between the beds before laying down, “I may have admired Jim Moriarty, but I have no desire to become him.”

“The only thing separating you and James is your ability to empathize,” Mycroft said finally mirroring Sherlock ‘s movements. “Remember that.”

* * *

 

The next morning Sherlock didn’t rise from bed until midday. The hunt had only just begun and he needed to take care of himself while he could. Sleeping in was hardly difficult, just boring. Leisurely, stretching in bed, Sherlock took a moment to ruminate on the fact that Mycroft lay in the bed next to him. The brothers had such a fractious relationship that Sherlock didn’t often like to spend time or energy analyzing it. He knew that in his own twisted way, Mycroft did care and although those feelings usually manifested themselves as inappropriate kidnappings, he tried to protect his younger sibling. Still, if the brothers managed to survive this trip without any incidents of attempted fratricide, Sherlock would be shocked.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Mycroft grinned from across the room, watching Sherlock stir. “Nice of you to join us.”

The elder sibling had been awake since before sunrise. Well caffeinated and used to early starts, he’d already made major headway in their search for the Baillet warehouse. He doubted his brother was even aware that he’d left; Sherlock was never one for early mornings.

“Can I interest you in tea, coffee, food? I’ve got a box of petits fours. Or perhaps something stronger, would you prefer the glock or the beretta?” 

Laying on the coffee table was an open box of delicately crafted pastries, and two sturdy pistols. The juxtaposition was almost laughable, and Mycroft took a supreme delight in watching his groggy sibling process the image. He plucked one of the cakes from the box and took a bite, powdered sugar sticking to the stubble on his unshaven cheeks.

“I’ve been busy.”

Sherlock paused mid-stretch and stared, frozen, at the guns on the table.  His pose, back stretched, arms slightly extended, and hair mussed would have fit in perfectly on a movie set, and in real life it looked even more comical. After an absurdly long pause, Sherlock relaxed and attempted to pass off his shock, “Petits fours? So much sugar.” 

“What? Worried about a sugar crash.” Mycroft countered. “You can tut all you want, rewards are in order. While you were indulging in the whims of King Morpheus, I was narrowing our mark’s location down to a three block radius.”

He dusted off the powdered sugar and licked his fingers clean.

“If you’d kindly put on some clothing, I think it’s time we got down to business.”

Grumbling and still bemused by the guns sitting on the table, Sherlock acquiesced without comment, shuffling into the bathroom to shower briefly before pulling on another hoodie and jeans combo. 

Once ready he slipped the glock into the waistband of his jeans (while resolutely pushing away flashes of John completing the same action) and pushing his mobile into the right front pocket. Forgoing a bag so as to minimize his weight, Sherlock took one of the larger pastries and stood by the front door, “Your turn to lead then.”

They strolled from the building together, Mycroft’s hands free and weapon concealed within the confines of his jacket. Speaking in hushed tones, but inconspicuously enough that he wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, Mycroft described what he had found. 

“The building structures and layout all along this street aren’t fit to support an underground operation the size we’re looking for, although I do wonder if they utilize the sewer system as a byway,” Mycroft explained. “However, if you move over one street to the north, there are several structures that are either abandoned or derelict. Coincidence, perhaps, but they also happen to be hooked up to some very powerful security systems. One I’m convinced is just to keep out vandals, but the other two have the potential to be our access points. There is also a metro line that cuts between Boulevard De Paris and Rue Chevalier Paul; more open access to whatever is beneath the city. I suggest we do some surveillance work, really scout the area to see if we can discover any hotbeds of activity.”

* * *

 

For two days the brother’s worked to find the correct warehouse amongst a maze of abandoned and semi-inhabited buildings. Sticking to the shadows and on the two occasions when someone saw them pretending to be lost American tourists, they avoided notice. Perhaps more surprisingly, the brothers continued to work well together.

The first time they’d needed to lie to avoid suspicion it was all Sherlock could do not to burst into schoolboy giggles at Mycroft’s exaggerated American Southern twang. Likewise, the second time, when Sherlock asked, “Could y’all help us find our ways outta here?” Mycroft had to bite his tongue to keep from guffawing.

The second their interloper was out of sight, Mycroft punched Sherlock in the arm. 

“What was that??! Are you trying to give us away? I can’t maintain composure when you talk like that!” He laughed a bit, shaking his head, before looking back down the alleyway. 

“What an idiot, I can’t believe he bought that.” 

Sherlock gave a genuine smile in response, “We’ve spent so much time together that you’ve forgotten, everyone is an idiot.”

“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten,” the elder Holmes replied, before lowering his voice. “Did you see the woman, just before our friend engaged us? That’s the third time this week we’ve seen her around that alleyway, and she vanished the moment we were preoccupied. That has got to be Miss Baillet. Her hair’s shorter than the photo leads we have, but I know I’m not wrong.”

“Excellent then. Did you see which way she went?”

“No, I’m sure that fellow was planted to prevent it. We can’t be seen again, or we’re going to have problems. However, unless she leaves through another exit, I’ll bet money on us seeing her again on that crossroad, probably once the sun has set. If we’re careful we could tail her home. She’ll surely have guards though...It could be tricky.”

“I wouldn’t have a guard,” Sherlock announced as the two moved to their new lookout to wait. “She’s a woman, so she would’ve had to work hard and push to prove herself worthy to the very men that relied on her. Stupid, really. She’s more than capable of handling herself. And no woman wants extra men following her around. She’ll be alone and unprepared. Killing her will be easy.”

“We’re after information, not blood,” Mycroft frowned at his brother’s words, settling down. The area was well covered, but less than comfortable, and he knew they’d be there for some time. There was no sense in wasting energy. “Don’t do anything irrational.”

“Irrational would be leaving her alive to let the others know we’re coming,” Sherlock responded sharply. “Now I’m going into my mind palace, I’ll be back in two hours.”

“Oh, good, I’ll just keep watch then,” Mycroft huffed, but didn’t argue further. It was for the best, really, if he were to retreat into his own thoughts he’d likely be overwhelmed by the responsibilities he was shirking back in England. Instead he focused on the little foot traffic that moved through the side street, vaguely analyzing them as they walked. By the time Baillet reappeared, he was bleary-eyed with boredom, and had taken to counting the bricks on the building across the street. 

He shook the numbers from his mind and grabbed at his brother’s knee, squeezing it twice to break his concentration. 

The sudden touch startled Sherlock out of his mind palace, “Hm? Ah, yes.” 

The brothers stood and shook the cramps from their limbs before trailing the woman discreetly. As Sherlock had predicted she had no bodyguards so the brothers only had to worry about the woman herself looking back to see them.

They wound around the streets, keeping to the shadows to blend into the night. There were several times while, in trying to keep their distance, they almost lost their mark. She was taking an incredibly indirect route, and for nearly two blocks Mycroft worried she’d realised that she was being followed and was trying to slip away discreetly. They’d walked almost a kilometer before she finally approached an unassuming looking building, looked up and down the street, and began undoing the locks.

“The moment the door is open, we need to go,” Mycroft whispered, his voice barely audible on his breath. “If it shuts and she relocks we’re never getting in.”

“Let me lead then for God’s sake,” Sherlock hissed back readjusting the gun in the waistband of his trousers and tensing his muscles. 

As soon as Baillet began to push open the door he sprung forward and rushed her, making it to the door, which had opened fully, before the woman could react. However, upon realizing his intent she quickly fought back, skillfully lowering her center of balance and spreading her feet. Her movements were practised and Sherlock shifted tactics so as to use his size as an advantage against her. He aimed to tackle her around the waist and knock her down to pin her with his weight but the Frenchwoman anticipated his actions and struck out with her right elbow, hitting his nose, and causing a font of blood to spurt out. 

Resolutely ignoring the blossoming pain that came with the sickening crunch of cartilage, Sherlock repressed his instinct to hold his face and instead grabbed her now outstretched arm, pulling, and twisting, forcing Baillet to stumble inside her home. 

“Mycroft, the door!” he cried out as he wrestled with the woman, trying and failing to keep her pinned to the ground. While the elder Holmes closed the door and locked it, efficiently securing them inside, Baillet efficiently flipped herself on top of the consulting detective and landed several strong blows to his face. Accepting the blows, Sherlock worked to reach behind him and get hold of his gun. Sacrificing his left cheekbone once more he arched his back slightly, closed his hand around the butt of his gun, and went limp. 

She hit him again for good measure before turning her attention to Mycroft. The younger Holmes took his opportunity and thrust his hips up to dislodge her and simultaneously bringing his gun down on the back of her neck to knock her out. Verifying she was unconscious, Sherlock stripped off her jacket and used it to wipe the blood from his face.

“Well that was tedious.”

Mycroft turned away from the security panel next to the door to find his brother covered in what he assumed was his own blood, and the Frenchwoman incapacitated on the floor. Immediately his eyes moved to the corners of the corridor, and he hissed with displeasure.

“I knew this would be an issue,” he grunted, raising his beretta. He quickly snapped off two rounds, destroying Baillet’s security cameras in a spray of static and shattered parts. He then moved back to the keypad that would deactivate the security system.

While Mycroft took care of the security system, Sherlock began rifling through the rooms of the small flat looking for Baillet’s computer, filing system, and safe. Depressingly he found all three under her bed.

_ How predictable _ . 

“It seems our friendly neighborhood gun-runner has a bit of a trust issue,” he called out to Mycroft as he spread the cache across the floor of her bedroom. “We may not need to speak with her after all.” 

Mycroft was busy with the keypad. He held a pocket sized torch between his teeth, leaving his hands free and the box illuminated. He’d managed to pry it from the walls, but disconnecting the board from the wires would potentially trigger another silent alarm that would alert the security provider. Knowing that he was wasting valuable time and that Sherlock was already tearing through the apartment tripping lord only knew what, Mycroft ripped one of the wires free, and left the others connected. He paused for just a moment before ripping out the second, which he knew would disable the cameras and motion sensors. He waited a moment longer before removing the torch from his mouth. 

“I think the security is down,” he called, just as a tinkling of music chimed through the hall. Instantly Mycroft felt his stomach flip, and he turned back to face Margeaux.

“And that would be the provider calling to report that the system is offline and to ask whether there’s an emergency,” the elder Holmes sighed, quickly patting down the woman’s body in an attempt to find her phone. “Sherlock, we may have to wrap this up quickly if I can’t convince these bastards that I’m Miss Baillet!”

Rolling his eyes Sherlock swiftly returned to the entry hall and snatched the phone. In a husky, roughened voice he barked in fluent French, “Quoi? Que pourriez-vous avoir envie en ce moment?” Pausing for only a moment he moaned a bit and turning his mouth away from the receiver breathed, “Oui, oui, attends mon amour, attends-moi pour obtenir cet idiot éteindre le téléphone.”

Mycroft kept quiet, knowing that hearing two male voices on the phone would be suspicious in an already suspicious situation, and elected to swap roles with Sherlock. With a look that clearly said, “don’t get cocky,” Mycroft turned on his heel and ventured into the flat. 

Not five minutes later a single shot echoed and Sherlock re-entered the bedroom wiping blood off of his face and hands. Unperturbed by what he’d just done he sat on the ground and resumed sorting through the paper files spread on the floor, leaving the computer in his brother’s care.

Mycroft knew immediately what had happened when he heard the gunshot. There’d been no sound of a struggle, and Sherlock was aware of his surroundings. Margeaux Baillet was dead, and he was an accessory to murder. He ran through the list of things he wanted to say to his brother in that moment, but when Sherlock walked into the room, painted in blood spatter, his words failed him. There was a long, pregnant pause where Mycroft stared at his brother, wondering if he was averting his gaze on purpose. Finally, the elder Holmes looked back at the computer in his lap and murmured,

“I’m amazed they fell for your performance; she’s clearly a lesbian.” 

“Again Mycroft,” Sherlock returned unconcerned, “You forget how stupid most people are.”

“Yes...It seems I am consistently underestimating what people are capable of.” 

“Hm,” was Sherlock’s only response. 

The brothers worked in tandem well into the night going through Baillet’s papers and files to comb for the relevant information they needed to track down the web. It seemed that her propensity for saving tidbits and old plans either out of compulsion or for safety worked out in their favour. 

Mycroft had begun to assemble a pile of papers and documents that he planned on bringing with them. He’d also pulled out a map of Europe, and was marking each reference point and place name he’d found relevant. A bevy of red marks centred around several cities, the most prolific of which was Munich. He added another mark to the map and recorded a street name in a notebook, simultaneously fighting the heavy droop of his eyelids. Adrenaline expended, he was beginning to fade. 

“Do you have anything to share?” Mycroft asked, checking the computer screen. The files were two thirds of the way downloaded to an external flash drive, but it still had about an hour to go.

Flicking through sheaths of paper Sherlock groaned a bit as he once again became aware of his surroundings, “Oh yeah, loads,” he remarked with sarcasm. “She was having an affair with the waitress at the cafe down the road, and another with the wife of a contact up in the Normandy region, as well as a third with a woman she met online.”

Shaking his head a bit and standing to walk circuits he continued, moving to a more serious vein. “Africa, Asia, the Americas, and the Middle East are lost. Moriarty had only begun to stake out serious claims when he appears to have either gotten bored or distracted by me. Since his death they’ve returned to the old status-quo. Ergo, not our problem.” He looked to Mycroft for confirmation.

“What a naive little world view you have, must be so nice,” Mycroft countered. “What are your opinions on Munich, if any?”

“Fine then, not my problem,” he corrected, stressing the personal pronoun. 

“Munich,” he flicked through a separate, and far larger stack of papers, “Munich, Germany, Munich. Yes, Baillet did a quite a bit of business with Munich. She never stated outright what that was business was, but I’d guess drugs. It’s the logical conclusion in conjecture with her guns. I’ve also got plenty of vague references to work deeper in Eastern Europe and something else large and important in Russia. It all dovetails nicely to what we know of the remnants of the London base and Moran.” 

“What do you have?” Sherlock yawned.

“A headache. Financial records. Address book,” Mycroft replied, before tossing the map he’d  been writing on to his brother. “Take a look at that, I have every street and location she mentions recorded in a notebook for future reference. Munich is centrally located, it’s more than likely a hotbed of criminal activity throughout Europe. There are two names in her address book that I recognize; one is a wanted gun-for-hire, and the other is a smuggler from Monaco that has already done jail time. I’m trying to check records on the others, but accessing the database without giving away our location is holding me up. I may have to wait until we’re in a more secure location.” 

“Not a bad start,” Sherlock remarked casually as he added to Mycroft’s map. Turning to look around at his brother he asked, “What’s next?”

“We need to leave here by sunup, and I want to be out of the country by noon. I’ve already booked train tickets for Germany,” Mycroft answered. “I want to see what other information we can find about Russia, but Munich is the place to start. Sleep if you can, I’ll set an alarm for four.”

The bureaucrat stood, stretching the ache from his back. He was sore, and desperately needed a shower. He wanted to shave, the whiskers on his cheeks were beginning to itch, but he’d resigned himself to growing them out while abroad. It’d help keep him unrecognizable, as long as he could bear the discomfort.

He looked to his brother for a few moments, before shrugging off his jacket.

“We should do something with the mess you made in the hall.”

“Don’t bother, I staged the scene already. Try not to tread over there until we leave. Use the back stairs if you need to go down to the kitchen.”

“Oh...Alright then.”

“Don’t shave either. Find some lotion in the bathroom and rub it in, it’ll help with the discomfort.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Fine. We’ll reconvene in a few hours,” he offered, before leaving his brother to find the bathroom.

Spending a few more minutes in the bedroom finishing his additions to the map Sherlock wandered out to the landing and glanced around, briefly considering a nap before deciding against it and heading downstairs to scope the kitchen. Having found all of the information they’d needed in one room the brothers had neglected to thoroughly search most of the house. And while Mycroft’s body had no experience dealing with the crashes that came with large bursts of adrenaline, Sherlock, the addict, did. He’d sleep again on their way to Munich. 

Beginning in the kitchen Sherlock raided the refrigerator for snacks before moving on to the cupboards. Systematically he moved through the kitchen looking without believing he’d find anything they may have missed. So it shocked him, when feeling at the back of Baillet’s ‘junk drawer,’ to find a clear plastic bag bursting with an assortment of drugs.

Which was how, Sherlock Holmes found himself sitting alone at a table, in the middle of the night, in the silence of a dead woman’s home, staring at a bag of drugs. Not just your garden party variety bag either, a quart sized sampler pack of every drug he’d ever taken plus a few he imagined that were still in their developmental stages. 

Before finding the drugs, Sherlock had successfully pushed away thoughts of his first murder in order to work. But now… he looked down at the bag in his hands and noticed that he’d never actually washed himself after blood from him nose had mixed with the blood from Baillet’s head. Rust red flakes clung to his hands and streaked up his forearms. If he had a mirror he imagined he’d see the same across his face as well. 

He should shower. 

He should leave the room. 

He should give the drugs to Mycroft to dispose of somewhere. 

Whatever happened next, Sherlock Holmes should not continue to sit alone at a table, in the middle of the night, in the silence of a dead woman’s home staring at a bag of drugs.

But when had he ever gone to Mycroft on a danger night?

Opening the bag with steady hands he calmly laid out its contents on the kitchen table, sorting the drugs into those he recognised, those he could deduce their contents, and the unknown. Keeping enough presence of mind to discard the unknown pile before he started, Sherlock then reached out to take the bag of cocaine, efficiently laying out each line before snorting them one after the other. As he waited for it to take effect he grabbed up a pen and paper from the counter and wrote out “Cocaine, 75% purity, 0.5 grams” before resting the paper on top of the powder’s residue. 

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock furiously paced the around the kitchen table, no calmer than before. 

_ Designer drugs straight from the designer and I’m not high. Unacceptable. Unacceptable. Unacceptable. Unacceptable. Unacceptable. Unacceptable. What else can I do? What else can I take? Must- must- must- fix this. Must stop this. Must stop. _

“Freak,” Sally Donovan sneared inside his head, “Always knew you’d do it one day.” 

Striding over to the table once again Sherlock looked over his options. Heroin this time then. He’d avoided it in recent years since a bad heroin high would disable the detective for days, but the cube of black tar in his hand was clearly pure . He’d need only about 10 or 15 milligrams to get the job done. Mixing boiling water from a nearby kettle into the slice the consulting detective wrote out what he’d taken before snorting it. 

“Heroin, black tar, pure, 0.10mg.” 

The burning pain in his nostrils had barely faded before he could feel the high beginning to take effect. Not content and still fixated on the image of Baillet’s unconscious eyes as he placed a gun between them, he scrambled up to the table again.

_ When had he gotten on the floor? _

Sherlock scratched out the 0.10mg replacing it with “0.15mg” and repeated the process. 

_ Oblivion.  _


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft woke fourteen minutes before his alarm was set to sound. He was tempted to close his eyes for another few minutes, but a lifetime of early mornings had taught him it just wasn’t worth it. He manually switched off the alarm and rubbed his hands over his face, working the sleep from his features.

_ Alright, fifteen minutes to clear out, then on to the train station. What I wouldn’t give to have an assistant organising all of this… _

He glanced around the room, surprised to find that Sherlock was no longer with him. He expected his brother to still be reviewing files or perhaps to have nodded off in a corner. Realising that it’d take time to round Sherlock up, he forced himself to stand, and began the search for his sibling. 

The kitchen was the first place Mycroft checked, assuming that his brother had sought caffeine or sustenance during their lapse in activity. He hadn’t planned on finding Sherlock slumped against the wall, back hunched, despondent. He would have assumed that Sherlock was asleep, had he not encountered this scene before. The sweat drenched locks, the gentle tremors in his hands, the the ultra-slow rise and fall of his chest; they told a different story.

_ Leave him. Just leave him. _

The dull ache behind Mycroft’s eyes caused by insufficient sleep had ignited, and was matched by the burn of anger in his chest. In that moment the elder sibling was overcome with a feeling of deeper hatred, vehemence, and frustration than he could ever remember experiencing. Whether it was directed at the man, the substance, or the habit, he couldn’t say. Only years of controlling his temper kept him from resigning from his fraternal obligation; leaving his strung out brother to melt into the floorboards while he returned to the comforts of home. 

Instead, he examined the scene, finding both of the scribbled notes his brother had left, as well as the remnants of his indulgence. Cocaine and heroin. 

“Bloody hell and all the sinning saints,” Mycroft breathed finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needed to get them both out of the house, discreetly, before sunrise. Sherlock was catatonic, and based on what he’d taken, would be out of commission at least until they had boarded the train. 

Mycroft crumpled up the papers. He’d already logged away the information they contained, and their existence only made him angrier. Sherlock’s binge had been premeditated enough that he’d bothered to uphold their agreement leave dosage records, and that, in some ways, was less forgivable than an impulsive choice to use.

_ Why didn’t you come get me? _

As his anger shifted to guilt, he was overwhelmed by the desire to dig his foot into his brother’s ribs.

Instead, he dampened a kitchen rag, knelt down, and wiped it over the other man’s face, dragging it backwards over Sherlock’s scalp so that it slicked back his hair. 

He said nothing. Any words would have been wasted.

* * *

 

The pounding noise needed to stop. Now. The pounding needed…

Sherlock lurched into consciousness and across the cramped cabin into the equally cramped bathroom nearly within the same breath. Heaving, his throat spasmed open and closed as his stomach desperately tried to empty itself as quickly as possible. A burning sensation spread from his gut upwards making him heave even more though he had nothing left to purge. Long minutes later, after he’d calmed, he flushed and rested his head against the bowl, fighting the dizziness that now threatened to overwhelm him.

Mycroft folded his newspaper, but stayed in his seat. He’d managed to get them to the train on time; as far as he was concerned, his had fulfilled his duties in this drug addled debacle and Sherlock was on his own. His brother had sobered up and since dying from overdose was no longer an issue, the only thing left to do was stare condescendingly at the bathroom door, so that upon exiting Sherlock would be greeted by his hawkish gaze. 

Sherlock emerged, still shaking, from the bathroom. He didn’t saying a word or acknowledge Mycroft’s presence as he drank gratefully, although in small sips, from the bottle of water on his bench.

“Blood on your hands and drugs in your system. John would be so disappointed,” Mycroft said eventually. He didn’t bother sharing his own feelings on the issue; they wouldn’t have mattered to Sherlock.

The mere mention of John produced a visceral reaction from Sherlock who reared back before groaning in pain. He also looked down, intrigued, at his hands.  _ No blood. _ Mycroft must have washed him up then. “Not bloody anymore,” he croaked unable to say anything else without feeling ill. He lapsed back into silence, focused on using his considerable brain power to stop his body from shaking, his stomach from trying to escape through his mouth, and the world from spinning around so quickly.

Mycroft didn’t bother answering, but he continued to stare at the shuddering form of his brother. He had plenty to say, but he knew a few sharp tongued quips wouldn’t be worth the fight that would follow. If Sherlock hadn’t learned by now, he never would. Instead he watched his sibling, a vision of silent judgement.

A sign of John’s influence (not that he would ever acknowledge such a change), after thirty or forty minutes and most of the bottle of water Sherlock finally felt up to attempting to explain himself. He sighed so as to break the heavy silence before opening his mouth. “It wouldn’t stop. The blood, I’m used to the blood, but-” he paused, “I wish I had done it during the fight. I wish I hadn’t waited. I couldn’t stop seeing the image of her eyes. They judged me. I wish she had struggled.”

He paused and took a large swallow of water, sputtering a bit before he finished what he had to say, “I just needed not to see for a bit.”

Mycroft shifted his position, leaning forward so that he was on the cusp of invading Sherlock’s personal space.

“No, you took a selfish, unnecessary risk. How do you suppose a trip to the hospital would have factored into your plans? Did you even think for a second that there could have been consequences outside of your immediate needs? What if we’d had to evacuate the area quickly and efficiently? Do you have any idea how long it took me to slug you to the train station?!” 

_ How did you manage that?  _ Sherlock thought. Under other circumstances the image of his brother lugging his lanky six foot frame into a train would have amused the consulting detective. However, considering Mycroft had done so only because Sherlock had nearly OD’d in the night, he wisely kept his thoughts to himself. 

“Then we would have been in trouble,” Sherlock conceded, “But none of those things happened so you needn’t worry about it anymore. And I admit the heroin was likely a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

“That’s that then?” Mycroft retorted, flicking up his eyebrows. “Moving right along? Because one drug binge is not going to erase what you did. You’re going to see her when you close your eyes, in every shadow, in every stranger you pass in a crowd. I warned you. Welcome to the other side.”

His frown deepened.

“We need to deal with this like adults, before it consumes you.” 

“And you’re the expert on fallout after shooting someone in the head?”

“No, but I’m all you’ve got right now.”

Sherlock nodded his head slightly. He had a point.

“Well then… what do you suggest?”

He waited a beat and when Mycroft didn’t immediately jump in, Sherlock snorted, starting to feel better, “Nothing? Excellent. Then let’s say nothing more and let me sleep it off until we reach Munich.” Having had the last word he laid down on the bench, resolutely not groaning on the way, and fell asleep, dead to the world as his body worked to put itself to rights again. 

Mycroft pursed his lips, but refrained from trying to engage his brother. Sherlock was right, there was nothing to say. Mycroft could chastise him, belittle him, put him down, but there would be no comforting words to follow, nothing that would truly ease his brother’s torrid mind. Instead he consented to letting Sherlock sleep. He watched him with the intensity of a worried mother tending to a sick child all the while wondering if there was more he could have done to prevent Sherlock from using.

* * *

 

Mycroft lightly shoved Sherlock’s shoulder a stop before they were set to disembark. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock, you’ve got to wake up,” he said, shaking him again. “We’re almost to Munich.”

Sherlock groggily blinked, again taking a moment to remember his whereabouts. He shivered, the skin all over his body breaking out into goose flesh. His head pounded and the light flickering on and off through the trees as the train moved made the ache deeper. Memories, wanted and unwanted, streamed back into his head though and gingerly Sherlock sat up, “I don’t suppose you have more water? And something for my head?”

“Keep your eyes closed, but stay awake,” Mycroft replied, as he began sifting through his bags for some paracetamol. He cracked open a bottle and nudged Sherlock’s hand with it, before dropping two pills into his brother’s palm.

“You didn’t bring any drugs with you, did you?” 

“Mycroft you carried me unconscious onto a train. When do you think I had time to stuff my pockets with heroin and cocaine?” he threw the pills back dry and swallowed before taking the water from his brother.

“You had enough foresight to leave me handwritten notes, pardon me for assuming you might have thought to tuck away a little pick-me-up. Tell me straight out. Do you have any drugs with you?”

Sherlock’s immediate reflex was to protest more, to push back again, to fight the brother that for so long he did nothing with but fight. Instead he stopped himself and looked at that brother. Mycroft, even when one accounted for recent stressors, looked horrible. His cheeks stretched tightly against his face and an uneven stubble was scattered across them. His mouth pinched and in a permanent frown had set in. His heavy with purple bruise-like bags hung under his eyes. Even his skin appeared to have turned paler in the last two or three days. 

“No. I have no drugs with with me and I promise it won’t happen again. I’m prepared for it now. I won’t need them.”

Mycroft simply nodded and moved on, although the significance was not lost on him. Sherlock had never promised him he wouldn’t use. He wasn’t sure what a promise from his brother was worth, they weren’t in the habit of using such language. Still, he was sure it meant something, and he was going to take it at face value.

“I haven’t booked accommodations. Once we disembark we’ll need to find a place to stay, and then I’ll take care of the next bit of reconnaissance.”  

Sherlock knew Mycroft would understand the significance of his statement and would, in the time honoured tradition of their family, ignore it. That suited the youngest Holmes perfectly. “Your mobile is untraceable, I presume?,” Sherlock didn’t wait for a response, “I don’t want to waste time here, Baillet obviously worked closely with whomever heads the Munich drug circle and word will travel quickly that she’s dead--” 

_ Her dead eyes, her jaw slack, a thick skein of hair spread out beneath her head and then--- blood. All of it covered in blood except the bits of her skull that no longer existed. Except the pieces of the woman that Sherlock had destroyed with one finger. _

Sherlock shook himself out of the memory, violently pushing it into a padded cell in his mind palace. He would deal with the deletion later. He had to delete such a distracting thought. He’d save most of Marseilles but the actual act, that had to go. He picked up where he’d left off, “--So you’ll have to start scouting immediately. I’ll sort out where we’re staying and text you the location.” 

“If that’s what you’d prefer, I can do that,” Mycroft replied with a nod of his head. “I may be a bit, depending on how long this initial sweep takes. I don’t have all that much to go on.”

He gathered up their baggage, double checking to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything important.

“Can you get all of this to the hotel on your own?”

Sherlock sniffed, took the bags from his brother, and followed him off the train. On the platform he held out a hand, “Have fun Christian, a pleasure to meet you.” 

Mycroft took the offered hand, squeezing a bit harder than necessary.

“And you. Safe travels.”

They parted ways.

* * *

 

It was well after dark by the time Mycroft navigated his way to the hotel Sherlock had found. He was a bit worried; the afternoon had been an exercise in trust, as well as an opportunity to gather information. Leaving Sherlock alone when he had no guarantee that his brother wouldn’t use again felt like a huge risk. 

He hadn’t found out much during his afternoon out. His initial scope of the area had turned up little out of the ordinary. He knew he’d need to make contact with the criminal underworld, and the fastest way to do that would be to find a drug dealer. It had been easy enough once the sun had set; skulking around in shady areas until a dealer happened upon him. He knew what to say to win the dealer’s trust, complete the transaction quickly, and simultaneously maximize the amount of information he could get from the exchange. 

He’d immediately disposed of the drugs; he wasn’t stupid enough to bring them along to the hotel. Sherlock didn’t need an invitation to relapse. Now, back at the hotel, he made notes of his limited findings while tucking into a modest supper of potatoes and brats. 

“What did you do all day?” Mycroft wondered aloud, without looking up from his notebook.

_ I checked on John. I resisted calling John. I resisted calling Mrs. Hudson. I checked on Lestrade. I tried not to see her eyes or her slack jaw. I failed at not seeing her covered in blood and dead, so very, very dead.  _

“I found us a hotel and didn’t take any more drugs.”

“Well, that’s all I could ask, I suppose,” Mycroft replied. “There’s a hotbed of drug related activity just north of here. I did make contact with a dealer, and I spotted at least three more as I was walking around, but I didn’t want to appear too forward. I’m going to need more time to find where it’s all stemming from. ”

“And what am I supposed to do while you sniff out more drugs? I shan’t bother asking if you’ll let me help.”

“Just rest. I’ll be quick about it. Go through Baillet’s records, see if there’s anything we missed. Have you eaten anything?”

Sherlock huffed at Mycroft’s dismissal of his help. Even though he’d expected it, especially after last night, it didn’t aggravate him any less. “Fine,” he replied, petulant. Sherlock had enough sense not attempt to go out after his brother and search for evidence. With Baillet dead, two of them asking around without coordinating first would only attract notice.

Only after resolving to be a good little brother and do as told did Sherlock address the final part of the question. “Yes, you saw me have water on the train. You also saw me pick up biscuits from the station when we arrived.”

“But I didn’t see you actively consume said biscuits. Besides, that isn’t enough to recover on. Finish this,” Mycroft replied, leaving no room for questioning as he pushed over his plate.

“I don’t need to recover,” Sherlock complained even as he took the utensils and plate from his brother and began picking at the leftovers. “And you’ve hardly left me anything.”

“I’ll order more if you’ll eat it,” Mycroft countered. “Finish that and see how you feel.”

Sherlock finished the rest of the food in silence, resolutely not looking at his brother. As he deposited the empty dishes on a side table a thought occurred to him, “How have you been paying for all this? You aren’t using your card are you? Dear God- they’ll track that in a moment.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock for several seconds, before replying flatly, “You honestly think I’m stupid, don’t you.”

“I’ve never said that. You are, of course, far smarter than nearly everyone else in this world.”

“Including you.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Because i’m the stupid one,” something akin to a laugh seemed to hover around Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Precisely.” 

Mycroft’s lips curled back into a knowing sneer, challenging Sherlock’s amused expression. “And the fact that you think this is a joke- the fact that you  _ still  _ ask these questions- proves it.”

“You believe I don’t begin each day burdened by the chaos of my own mind? Life is a constant flurry of input, input, input. I see what you see. I feel as you feel. But do you know the difference between you and I? I’ve assimilated. I’ve spent decades building up this facade, learning to function where you simply rebelled. I ask questions that I already know the answers to, I know the social protocols and the conversation topics and the mannerisms that you’ve simply rejected. I can at least pretend to belong. You? You’re the black sheep and the enigma. You’ve spent your entire adult life living as a petulant child. And where has it gotten you? You’re on the cover of every tabloid in London, you’re the latest spectacle. You’ve got everyone’s attention, but no one’s respect.”

Mycroft’s features had hardened, but his eyes had drifted away from Sherlock.

“My mind is always rioting. I’ve simply perfected the ability to hide it. I’ve even got you fooled.” 

“I can’t believe you bother to care what the masses thing of your," Sherlock sniffed. 

Tense silence fell between the men. Eventually Sherlock seemed to deflate before the other man eyes. He shook his head ruefully, "We do always seem to be poised on the brink of war don't we?" he said.

“I care about what “the masses think” because I need other people. I don’t have a brother looking out for me,” Mycroft replied. His face had fallen, there was no longer any hint of amusement or condescension in his voice. “I’m poised because I’m aware that shouting at you is pointless.”

“Perhaps you could treat me as an adult. See if that helps smooth the path forward?”

“You’re coming off a relapse and you want me to treat you as an adult?”

“Yes, I do.”

“No.”

They’d arrived at an impasse. Sherlock huffed and pulled his coat on, throwing a mobile and the room key in the pockets. “I’m going for a walk. Don’t bother following me. I’ll know.”

* * *

 

Returning from his walk long after Mycroft had fallen asleep Sherlock split the rest of the night alternating between perching half out of the window and chain smoking, and perching on his bed wishing he was smoking. By morning he’d gone through two packs and developed both a headache and another stomach ache. 

Mycroft slept poorly, vaguely aware of when his brother returned and where his sibling was in the room at most hours, but he didn’t acknowledge Sherlock. Rather, he tossed and turned, waiting for the break of dawn and the continuation of their journey.

He consented to coffee at four, switching on the six cup pot housed in the corner of their bathroom. As he waited for his caffeine he joined Sherlock leaning out of a window, bumming one of his cigarettes without asking. 

“Sleep well?” the elder brother questioned as he lit the tobacco, not expecting an answer. 

“Not a bit and it was still better than you,” Sherlock returned, though the jibe lacked any venom. 

“That’s probably true,” Mycroft inhaled deeply, the smoke taking the edge off of his exhaustion. “If I were you, I would cut back,” he added, gesturing to Sherlock’s overflowing ashtray. 

“That’s depends on what I’m allowed to do today. Am I stuck in the room again or will you let me out to help?”

Mycroft was silent for a moment. When he responded, his voice was level, but his tone was sharp.

“You’re in charge and I need to remember that. Tell me what you want to do.”

The declaration had an immediate effect. Sherlock straightened and snubbed his cigarette out choosing instead to pace small circuits around the room. “You’ve already made contact with a low-level dealer. I’d rather not spend weeks trying to make friends so we need to head somewhere with a steadier supply of drugs to choose from. Where’s the closest gay club?” 

As Mycroft took a deep breath in preparation to harshly rebuke his brother, Sherlock pre-empted him, “You know I couldn’t give two figs where you stick it, or if you prefer being stuck. Popular culture is often wrong, but one thing it got right was the highly concentrated presence of drugs found in clubs populated by affluent homosexual males.”

“There’s so much offensive about that statement that I can’t begin to criticise it,” Mycroft replied, snubbing out his cigarette. “But if that’s how you’d care to proceed, then by all means, let’s. We’re about half an hour outside of the Glockenbachviertel. Alexander’s doesn’t open until nine. How would you prefer to spend the afternoon?”

The politician gave no indication as to how or why he knew an ideal location off the top of his head, yet it hardly warranted Sherlock Holmes to figure it out.

“We’ll need new clothes if we want to be taken seriously.”

“Homeless professor isn’t my best look,” Mycroft glanced down, picking some lint off of his shirt. “Should I shave?” 

“Only if you’d like to be taken seriously,” Sherlock responded with a bit of a grin.

“Being taken seriously doesn’t really matter, as long as you know that you’re right. Do you want coffee?” his brother responded, ducking back inside.

“Please,” Sherlock responded, “Nevertheless I recommend we both shave before we shop.”

“Fine. I call the shower first.”

* * *

 

It was approaching ten in the evening by the time the brothers arrived in Glockenbachviertel. While neither man looked anything like how they dressed in London, they had both changed radically in the last few hours. Sherlock had slicked his hair back to eliminate all of his trademark curls and put on an electric blue cotton tee and gray skinny jeans. On a whim which he knew would annoy Mycroft, he accessorised the outfit with a thick leather strap around his wrist, thick black plastic glasses without lenses, and a pair of pencil thin navy braces. 

Mycroft was dressed in a solid navy suit, a red and white checked cotton shirt, a plaid blue and red bowtie, and a dark blue polka dotted pocket square. The pattern on pattern was ostentatious enough to stand out, but somehow still managed to work. Under normal circumstances he would never had considered owning such clothing, but for the sake of blending in, Mycroft had pushed the boundaries of what he found personally acceptable. 

He glanced up and down at his brother as they waited in line to get into Alexander’s, mildly surprised by his sibling’s choices in apparel. 

“Bear baiting tonight, hmm?” he asked in German.

A flash of genuine confusion flashed across his face, but Sherlock replied in kind, “Bears? In the middle of Munich?”

There was no reason Sherlock would have needed to know the term, outside of a case pertaining to gay men. Rather than reply with a condescending sneer, Mycroft offered a matter-of-fact definition, “It’s a slang term for large, heavy set gay men. Generally with a fair amount of body hair, but not always.” 

“Ah, and they’re attracted to,” Sherlock gestured down at himself dismissively, “awkwardly emaciated and largely hairless gay men?”

“Not necessarily, all I’m saying is that you look a bit wet behind the ears. Maybe lose the glasses,” Mycroft couldn’t hide the note of disdain that had crept into his voice. 

Sherlock bristled instinctively at the idea that he could still be ‘wet behind the ears.’ Nevertheless, he pushed the glasses up his forehead to rest in his hair. “Anything else before we go in, Christian? Should I muss my hair? Take my shirt off? Or just present my cock like bird for others to judge?”

“Leave your clothes on, and elbow anyone that gets handsy,” his brother answered. “Don’t accept drinks from anyone, and if someone asks you to check out the dark room, just say no. Are we staying together, or separating?”

_ Ah now it makes sense _ . 

It wasn’t that he was wet behind the ears that bothered Mycroft, it was that he was the younger brother. 

_ What a time to get overprotective _ , Sherlock thought with a bit of grin.  _ I wonder how close I could get to someone before he crowded in to save me?  _

“Perhaps we’d best get a sense of the place together before we break apart and cover more ground?”

“Fine,” Mycroft replied, flashing a smile at the doorman before he was allowed inside. Sherlock promptly followed him in, and he stepped close to his brother. The space inside was crowded and poorly lit, and a bit louder than the Englishman would have liked. “Do you want a drink? We’ve got time to kill.”

“Tonic and lemon,” Sherlock replied already casing the premise for exits, stairways, and particularly dark corners in which to buy or sell drugs.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t get lost,” Mycroft answered. It was several minutes before the politician reunited with his brother, a glass of tonic in one hand, spätburgunder in the other. He passed the drink to Sherlock, following up with, “I’ve seen three people I want to talk to. You?”

“I’ve got two corners I’d like to spend some time in. We’ll see who approaches me. Meet at the entrance at one?” 

Rather than wait for an answer, Sherlock immediately wandered away, his hips and entire body poised to attract attention. At the same time he consciously made sure to play up some the many tics developed by drug addicts, scratching slightly at his arm while shrugging his shoulders in a quick series of jerks.

Mycroft quietly settled himself at the bar. To anyone observing him, he looked contemplative, if not a bit preoccupied with his wine. In reality, he watched the activity behind him in the reflection of his glass. The club wasn’t all that busy, and while there were a few shady looking characters, there was nothing Mycroft wouldn’t have expected to find. The diplomat, weary of waiting, focused his attention on a pair of gentlemen that looked particularly out of place. Just as Mycroft was piecing together that they were foreigners, a deep German voice broke his concentration. 

“I haven’t seen you around here before… Are you local?”

On the other side of the club Sherlock sauntered to his appointed corner and lounged with an art-like leisure against a wall, glancing around the club with a studied look of boredom. While Mycroft may have thought his outfit contrived, Sherlock had done his research and dressed to accentuate the best parts of his body; his colouring, his legs, and his arse. He felt confident that within minutes someone would approach. 

Sure enough, not long after he settled an average looking man walked over. 

_ Thirty-six to thirty-eight, Berliner, accountant for a major firm traveling on business, out for at least a decade and comfortable with his sexuality _ .

He engaged Sherlock with a simple, “Hallo, wie geht es dir?” 

Rolling his eyes the Englishman replied with an equally simple, “Nein.” 

Such an ordinary man wouldn’t have the drug connections the brothers needed. Turning his head, Sherlock made eye contact with the what looked to a regular, a thirty year-old dressed all in black sitting in a chair at the corner of the bar nursing his own tonic water which had been dressed to look alcoholic. 

* * *

_ That...Was not productive. _

Mycroft straightened his clothing as he examined his reflection in the men’s room mirror, his world-weary expression melting into a deep frown as he noticed a bruise on his neck. His fingers grazed over the broken blood vessels, and he contemplated putting a wet paper towel over the mark. Eventually he decided against it. Sherlock would notice it immediately, regardless of how prominent it was. Besides, a love bite was hardly the only evidence of his poorly-timed, short-lived rendezvous with a German stranger. 

He hadn’t  _ intended _ on sleeping with anyone that night, never mind engaging in a quickie in the loo, but these things did tend to happen, rather unexpectedly, and-- although the politician was loath to admit it-- with surprising frequency. There was something about the promise of a quiet mind, the split-second snap between reality and the infinite that occurred during climax, where everything was silent and Mycroft felt _ ordinary _ , that left the politician unable to properly protest when sex was proposed.

_ I need to stop doing that. What a waste of time.  _

He glanced at his watch. Quarter to one, and nothing to show for it, save a bitter taste in his mouth and a tinge of regret.

_ Sherlock’s going to crucify me. _

* * *

Mycroft had faffed off somewhere, Sherlock could only hope it would yield results as he had yet to insinuate himself with man in black. First he’d walked to the open bar by the man, lingering but not engaging him. His target hadn’t even glanced his way. So Sherlock had wandered to find a free barhand he could lure away for information. With hardly any effort on his part (he had perhaps agreed to meet the boy behind the club after his shift but that obviously wouldn’t happen) the consulting detective got plenty of information. Guy, a regular over the last few years, never spoke to anyone, and never stayed until close. He was suspicious of everyone and only sat around to watch his associates do business. He didn’t trust a soul, didn’t have bodyguards, didn’t believe in backup. And he was ferocious enough that it had been nearly a decade since anyone had tested him.

 _We’ll have to strike while the iron is hot then. He’ll have noticed me at least and if any word about Marseilles has leaked out he’ll already be on his guard for strangers. Damn._ _Now things get difficult._

It was nearly one, where had Mycroft gone? Admittedly, Sherlock had left the main floor, but he’d lost track of his brother before he’d walked out. A brief flash of worry crossed his amygdala before a familiar frame caught his eye leaving the men’s room. 

_ If he’s been sick I won’t ever let him forget it.  _

But as the elder Holmes drew closer Sherlock changed his mind; he was going to destroy Mycroft.

_ That sanctimonious, preachy, uppity, holier than thou…. _

Vitriol immediately replaced all concern as it became clear exactly where Mycroft had gone and why. Behind him a larger German man walked out and Sherlock snapped. If Mycroft thought a quickie in the toilets was the best use of their time then Sherlock would make sure something came of it. Making a scene would be the best way to divert any suspicion he might have generated. Mycroft had created the perfect excuse. Making glancing eye contact with Guy he walked over to Mycroft, tore his collar away to reveal the hickey, and slapped him. 

“You slut!” he screamed before storming out of the club. 

_ It’s a good thing we don’t look alike.  _

Mycroft was through the doors of the club and upon Sherlock in moments, the sting in his cheek still fresh, exacerbated by the cool night air. The politician had shifted completely into autopilot, the calm rationality he worked so hard to maintain now gone as he fisted both hands into the back of his sibling’s shirt, simultaneously yanking him backwards and spinning him around so that they were facing one another.

“How  _ DARE _ you?” the politician sputtered. He only just kept enough presence of mind to speak in German. “I’ve never laid a finger on you in contempt, despite years of transgressions that well warranted it, and you have the audacity to strike me in public?!” 

His fingers were still clenched tightly in the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt and he jerked him aggressively.

“SAY SOMETHING!”

Sherlock practically vibrated in his brothers hands, furious. “No,” he growled low and deadly, “No, this is not about me anymore. I am not. Just. No.” 

He couldn’t speak for a moment, anger choking him.

“You didn’t even want me here today because of the drugs. But if I hadn’t been, if you had gone alone, what would you have told me when you returned to the hotel? Would you have said no one was at the club? Would you have lied and said you tried but couldn’t learn anything? Or would you have admitted that you didn’t have time to find anything out because you were too busy sucking cock in the toilets?”

He tore away from his brother, resisting the urge to push, to hit, to cause pain of some sort. “I am self-destructive, that was just bloody selfish.”

“Selfish? Oh, you have some nerve calling  _ ME _ selfish,” Mycroft spat. He was unable to focus on anything but his anger. His patience for his brother had finally, after years of testing, been expunged. “But of course, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’ll be on the next flight back to London. I wholeheartedly apologise for slowing you down.” 

He left Sherlock alone on the street. It was nearly fifteen minutes into a cab ride before the Englishman was able to control his breath and slow his heart rate, and by the time he reached the hotel, his anger had begun to mature into guilt. With a weight in his chest he retreated into the depths of his mind, intent on blocking out the memories of the evening until he could process them with some degree of rationality. 

Letting his anger continue to control him, Sherlock watched his brother walk away fully before turning around himself. Clearly nothing more would be done tonight. He filed his findings from the useful bar boy away and left the area before anyone could approach him or take more notice. Unable to go back to the hotel for fear he’d try to hurt Mycroft more, the dead man let his body wander the deserted streets of Munich and retreated into his head. His thoughts never settled, they bounced from London and John to Moriarty and their game before switching to Mycroft and the fragile peace they’d established before he’d gotten high in France. Once it all of had flashed by he returned to that which he’d tried so hard to block out already; Margeaux Baillet, who refused to stay locked away and refused to let him go. 

_ Her face. Her slack jaw and smooth brow. Her eyes, closed and unable to see. Her blood, thick and running, far brighter and tangier than even the freshest crime scenes. _

No matter how he ran circles around it, Sherlock couldn’t escape the visions of Baillet that haunted him whenever he was left alone with his brain. 

_ John and I will have something else in common when I get back _ . 

The sun had risen and the city had awoken. People rushed past him on their way to work by the time Sherlock wandered back into the hotel, slightly damp from the evening dew and still consumed by his thoughts. 

This time, the window ledge belonged to Mycroft. The elder Holmes, chilled to the point that his skin prickled, had spent the remainder of the night outside. The scent of cigarettes had permeated his clothing and the inside of his mouth was coated with a thin, skunky film that would probably take two or three brushings to remove. He heard Sherlock return, yet he had no interest in interacting with his sibling. Instead he pulled his coat a bit tighter around his shoulders, internally questioning why he was even there. His purpose in all of this had plagued him ad nauseum. He knew that he was to blame for Sherlock’s mandatory exodus. He knew that left alone, his brother was more of a danger to himself than any of Europe’s criminal elite. And yet, why did he care? What sort of sick obligation did genetics give him?

He lit another cigarette, hands shaking slightly as he brought the tobacco to his lips. It was none of his business what Sherlock did, where Sherlock went, who Sherlock was involved with. Still, he’d always made it his business. Why? He could list off reasons- Sherlock’s not capable, Sherlock’s self destructive, Sherlock is different, Sherlock will never fit in, Sherlock needs guidance. It was all true. Yet Mycroft, trapped in a rare state of mind that was both introspective and immolating, had realized that perhaps every invasion of his brother’s life had come with a qualifier.

He needed Sherlock more than Sherlock needed him. 

His brother offered him purpose, and direction, and was the grounding element that prevented him from drifting into the comfortable echelons of megalomania. He hated him, God, he hated him so much, but he also loved him, and relied on him, and had built his life around him to the point of near obsession.

Perhaps what Sherlock needed more than anything was emancipation.

He snubbed out his fag and stood, groaning under his breath as his bones readjusted to their new position. His joints throbbed with pain as he reentered the hotel room, mind and body protesting with each step. He approached his brother without hesitating. Sparing any formalities, he asked, in the most level tone he could muster, 

“Do you want me to stay?” 

The long cold night had offered several opportunities for Sherlock to evaluate his and his brother’s relationship. Since childhood Mycroft’s legacy had towered over the younger Holmes. Sherlock would never be as smart successful as his brother and so he’d rebelled; he’d taken drugs, he’d run away, he’d always refused to walk two steps behind. As a result, Mycroft had spent his life chasing after Sherlock in order to picked up his messes. He had had to treat the man like a child. Their current stalemate in a hotel room in Munich had thirty years of history behind it. 

Around five, Sherlock had realized that in some ways the two now stood on more equal footing than at any other point in their lives. They’d both made dangerous mistakes, albeit in different ways, and they’d both lashed out at the other. The east wind was blowing. They could no longer feasible live with the status quo. They needed change, and whatever form that change took it would result in a permanent shift in their relationship. 

“No,” he replied tiredly.

He shed his jacket, shoes, shirt, and jeans in a pile on the ground and settled himself in his bed. 

“At the moment I’ll admit that I’d like to throw you into the Thames. But I’ve concluded that I need you, so I’ll just have to get over the fratricidal feelings.” 

He offered a tired smile at the shock on Mycroft’s face. “Go to bed Mycroft, sleep for once, I’ll tell you what I learned when we wake up.”

_ He’s smiling, why is he smiling? Is it a fear grimace, or a warning sign? _

Mycroft frowned as he turned away from Sherlock, regarding the bed with disdain. The offer to sleep was hardly inviting. His mind was on autopilot, his body ached, and relaxation seemed like an abstract concept. He sighed and turned back to his brother.

“Can you just tell now, and we can move on with our day? It’s already daybreak.”

Sherlock fixed Mycroft with a stern look, “Go to bed. You’re not used to this much activity, you need to rest.”

“If I felt like sleeping, I would have done it while you were gone.”

Pulling the covers up over his head, Sherlock rolled his eyes, “No you wouldn’t have. Goodnight.”

Mycroft shook his head in frustration, consenting to a hot shower. Perhaps that would help him settle.

* * *

 

Mycroft awoke from a laboured sleep several hours later. He’d dozed off in a chair, and although the nap had taken the edge off his exhaustion, he hardly felt refreshed. He reached up to rub one of the knots out of his neck while scanning the room to establish whether Sherlock was awake.

Sherlock lay in bed totally still except for the peaceful intake and exhale of breath. While his face was now smooth the wrecked covers and sweat stains on his vest spoke of silent nightmares.

Mycroft glanced at his watched and rolled his eyes; it was after noon. Typical. If left to his own devices, he assumed Sherlock would have lingered in bed indefinitely. Without fanfare he gripped the edge of Sherlock’s blanket and pulled it away, exposing his sibling to the cool air.

“Come along, wake up.”  

A brisk snap of cotton and a man-made whip of cool wind woke Sherlock. He glared, less than pleased with his brother. Forcing his mind to wake up as quickly as his body, he looked Mycroft up and down, exaggerating the observation to make his point. “Well at least you’ve slept. And showered.” 

He sniffed a bit, “Normally I’d say to shower again though, a pack and a half of cigarettes in one night does tend to linger. The smell adds to your disguise.” 

Sitting up he stretched a bit, gingerly picking the sweaty shirt off his body and grimacing at it, “I’m showering. Then we’re going to get breakfast somewhere. Then we’ll come back here and,” he paused for the briefest moment, “talk.”

He stood and pulled his pants off, adding them his earlier pile, before shutting himself in the bathroom, locking the door for good measure. 

Despite both their attitudes, the brothers made it to a small cafe relatively quickly. The two didn’t speak much, instead they walked silently side by side through Munich’s streets. The silence became slightly more awkward as they shared a small table tucked away in one corner of the crowded space, yet neither man broke first. Instead they watched the patrons around them while exchanging the occasional glance when they both noticed something trivial but humorous. Finally, they took their leave, and the quiet between them now naturally extended to their return trip.

Mycroft was nursing a to-go cup of coffee, his third that day. He unlocked the door to the hotel room and held it open for his brother, ushering him in before swinging it shut. Inside, he settled down and opened his computer, finally breaking the silence between them.

“What did you find?”

Sherlock settled on his bed again, closing his eyes and steepling his hands over his lips so his words came out a bit muddled. “The man Baillet referred to as “Black” in her papers isn’t African. He’s a German named Guy. You may not have noticed him, but he sat at the bar all night dressed in black. Same as he does every night. He never speaks to anyone and he never stays until close. But it appears your penis managed to walk us into the exact bar we wanted. So well done there.”

Sherlock continued smoothly, his face still expressionless and his eyes still closed as if he hadn’t just made a dig, “Guy doesn't trust anyone, doesn’t have any bodyguards, and doesn’t need them. It’s been more than ten years since someone attempted to pull something on him. What he did to them my informant didn’t know but, well, the message stuck.”

“He follows a strict schedule and he’s definitely the leader of the cartel. That club is where all of his supplies find their way into the hands of every middleman trafficking drugs in Europe.”

Finally he opened his eyes, “Now all we’ve got to do is decide how a strung out consulting detective and lazy government bureaucrat can best a man so confident in his abilities he doesn’t keep outside protection.”

“You offed Baillet without any trouble and she had no guards,” Mycroft volleyed back. “Although I’d prefer to refrain from murdering more people, as you clearly don’t handle it well.”

Mycroft shook his head and closed his computer again, turning to face his brother.

“Sherlock, let’s go home. I know you believe that this is proactive, but what are we actually doing here? The revenge business is not a business for men like you and I. You’re making yourself sick. I know you think I’m being over protective, but maybe, just maybe, this time I’m right. This quest is turning you- turning us into something we’re not. I have the resources to handle this through outside contractors. Nothing says we need to be the ones to do it…” 

“No,” Sherlock sat up and glared at his brother. “No, I will not leave this to your band of bumbling buffoons. John could have died. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, they could have died. I won’t go home and tell them I ran away because they were threatened and now I’ve run back because I couldn’t fix it.”

Despite their problems, especially of late, Sherlock didn’t want his brother to leave. He’d be damned though if he said the words aloud. Falling back onto the bed he threw his elbow across his head to shield the room from his eyes, “You may return if you’d like but I will see this through.”

“They’d never blame you.”

“They should.” 

Mycroft sighed. “Where did we get such horrible guilt complexes?”

He finished his coffee, scowling at the empty cup that had left him less than refreshed. 

“Alright then, realistically, what are our options? Barreling in the way we did in France is probably out. No doubt by now he’s heard Baillet is dead. Do we try to make contact, ease our way in? Make him comfortable and then strike?”

“You didn’t see him last night,” Sherlock replied evenly and without judgement, “We could spend ten years getting to know him and he’d be no more comfortable with us than we are with most people. We’ll have to wait him out, let him think Baillet was a one-off, and then strike without warning.”

A small smirk bloomed on Sherlock’s face, “It looks like you’re getting a break from all this legwork.”

“Oh, thank god,” Mycroft sighed, rubbing his temples. “All this running around has been awful. Do I look thinner to you?”

A snarky response nearly escaped the dead man before he bit his lip and took the time to actually look his brother over.

“Honestly,” he replied, “you look horrid. You’re far too thin and your face is gaunt. I told you last night, you need to sleep. And maybe eat a croissant or five.”

“I can’t,” Mycroft replied. “Once the exhaustion wears off I can’t stay asleep. My mind is in overdrive, my dreams are awful.”

He hadn’t mentioned the dreams to Sherlock before, but he wondered if his sibling could empathize. The sweat-soaked sheets he’d pulled off his brother earlier suggested that it was possible. 

Sherlock perked up at the voluntary admittance, “Dreams of what?”

Mycroft opened and closed his mouth. He wasn’t particularly open about his feelings in general, but being direct with Sherlock about the images that plagued his subconscious meant his brother had access to his vulnerabilities, and could exploit them as he saw fit. He glanced at Sherlock, catching his eyes for a moment, before looking back down in an involuntary show of submission.

“It’s always different. James is always there, in one form or another. Sometimes it’s you, dead on the pavement. Sometimes they’re abstract, and I’m not even sure they’re nightmares. Either way I wake more exhausted than I was when I went to sleep.”

He shifted uncomfortably, before his face became stern. “I’m sure it’s just stress. Once we’ve returned home and settled back into our routines, they’ll cease.”

Sherlock lay back down and rolled away putting his back towards his brother. “I see Baillet,” he admitted. “Usually her face, and especially her eyes and lips. There’s always blood. Always. Sometimes I can hear John’s voice in the background, but I can never see him or make out what he’s saying. I just hear the distress.” 

“Build a safe in your mind palace. Take those feelings and lock them in it. Bring them out and process them when you’re ready. It doesn’t always work, but you have better control over your mind than most. Perhaps you can influence your subconscious enough to provide some relief.”

Mycroft wasn’t sure what to say beyond that. They didn’t have the sort of relationship that warranted heart-to-hearts or gentle comfort. He empathized with Sherlock, he even worried that perhaps he’d underestimated the psychological toll on his brother. While Mycroft was burdened by guilt, Sherlock was drowning in the reality. 

He reached out to pat Sherlock on the shoulder and murmured, “You’ll be alright. We’ll be able to go home soon, everything will sort itself out.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. Though muffled by the pillows, his voice didn’t sound confident or reassured, “Of course.”

Silence fell in the small hotel room as the brothers retreated inwards, picking up the parts of themselves they’d just put on show and re-assembling both their identities as Holmes’ and their facades of Siger and Christian. 

Finally Sherlock broke the quiet, “Are you staying or going?” His tone was still flat and resigned but had begun to resemble some of its usual disinterested arrogance. 

Mycroft had settled into the silence, and was slightly annoyed that Sherlock felt the need to disturb it. The underlying emptiness in his sibling’s voice, however, betrayed his mental state.

_ If he carries on like this, he’ll drive himself mad. _

The politician’s entire body jerked suddenly, as any snide replies were replaced with urgent movement. He lept to his feet, moving faster than he had since they’d departed France, scrambling for his coat. 

Sherlock was upset, and he knew exactly how to help. 

“Going...I’m going, but not forever!” Mycroft answered, practically at the door. “I’ve an errand to run, I’ll be back by nightfall!”

And with that, the door slammed shut.

Sherlock jerked up at Mycroft's sudden exclamation but his brother was out the door before he could respond. "Ok?" he said to an empty room. Flopping backward with a huff he entered his mind palace where he stayed until his brother returned. 

Mycroft’s footfalls echoed heavily outside the door before it swung open. His hands were encumbered by several items; two take-away meals, and the now obvious reason for Mycroft’s abrupt exit: a second-hand violin case.

“I’m back. Are you hungry- oh. Apologies. I didn’t mean to jar you out of your mind palace,” Mycroft said, setting down his packages. He knew firsthand how debasing it could be to be ripped from the sanctity of one’s mind by a sudden, everyday calamity. 

“I brought food. And coffee, and this,” he said, holding out the instrument’s case proudly. “Now you can’t travel with it, obviously, it’d be too conspicuous. But I thought, perhaps, in the meanwhile, since we’ll be in Germany for a bit…”

Sherlock took the case from Mycroft with a gentleness and reverence reserved for the most delicate evidence. Making only brief eye contact with his brother, he turned his full attention to the violin. 

"Not bad," the consulting detective apprised, looking over the wood, strings, and bow. He hefted the instrument in his hands to get a feel for it before tucking it under his chin and playing a quick succession of notes. He frowned a little, fiddled with the knobs and tried again. 

Slowly Sherlock tuned the instrument to his liking and then from the strings he drew out a fantastic and melodic song, although not one anyone else could name. For nearly an hour he composed, using music to organize his thoughts. 

Finally he set his bow down he to rub at the red mark on his neck and offered a neutral look to his brother, "Thank you, I hadn't realised..." Sherlock trailed off knowing Mycroft would understand. 

"Is the coffee still warm at all?"

“Ah, no. Not particularly,” Mycroft replied, ignoring Sherlock’s thanks, not out of true disregard, but out of desire to avoid prolonged awkwardness. Some things didn’t need to be voiced, and the gesture from Mycroft had been a genuine one; the knowledge that it had transpired was enough. 

“The room has a microwave in the wardrobe. I’m not sure how you feel about reheated coffee. It was a bit miserable to begin with...” 

Shrugging, Sherlock opened the wardrobe and stuck his coffee in, "Transport, Mycroft. It hardly matters."

Taking his first sip Sherlock made a face. He swallowed with a grimace, but pressed onwards and asked, "So did you have any other light bulbs go off while you were out?"

“In the grand scheme of things? No. For the here and now...We need money.”

Mycroft leaned backwards, arcing his shoulders over his chair. His spine felt tight, like it needed to stretch and pop, but he couldn’t quite alleviate the tension.

“Money?” Sherlock questioned, genuinely uncomprehending, “Why?”

“...To live? To continue staying in this hotel, eating, moving from place to place? Are you really that jaded?”

Mycroft frowned, then sat forward to look at Sherlock directly.

“I’m more than aware that you have no qualms about sleeping in gutters, but I do have standards.”

“I’m not jaded,” protested Sherlock, “I just thought you’d sort of… make the money happen.”

“Well, I will. I simply think it’s unwise to carry excessive amounts of cash. And as you so kindly pointed out earlier, I can’t put any of this on a card.”

“And so… you… want me to get a job?”

“Don’t be stupid, you’ve never rightfully worked for anything in your life, I don’t expect you to start now. I’ve got it under control.”

“Excuse me,” Sherlock leaned forward in his chair too, now annoyed at his brother’s dismissal of his profession, “I work on every case I get. Give me a day and a recently widowed heiress and I’ll have more than enough money to get us through.” He sneered, “They’re always so grateful,” his voice pitched upwards, “Oh thank you, I feel much safer now, thank you I never would have guessed it was the gardener.”

“And what about you? You’re hardly the type to wait tables.”

“No, but I can count cards. Are you up for a game?” Mycroft’s lips curved into a smile. 

All of the dead man’s previous ire vanished in an instant, replaced by a predatory grin. He stood, grabbed Mycroft’s face and kissed him on the forehead, “Genius.” 

As he moved to open a window and let air into the closed off hotel room, he again shifted his mood, this time impersonating an average person, “You know, I’ve played cards a few times. They say I’m a natural. It’s really not that hard.” 

“Our mother is a mathematician who specialized in probability, forgive me for not being wildly impressed that you’ve figured out how to count,” Mycroft replied flatly, his face still tingling from where Sherlock had grabbed it.

_ He kissed me...I think the last time that happened he was still in primary school. Christ, I can’t handle this emotional yo-yoing. _

“If you’re up equal to it we can run two games at once, increase our chances. I’ve got around three hundred pounds a piece that I’m willing to potentially sacrifice in an attempt to increase our funds.”

“I hardly think it’ll be a sacrifice.”

Sherlock remarked picked up the violin and absently stroked it, “More of an investment.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

* * *

The brother’s fell into a truce far more stable than any previous understanding they’d reached since in their lives. Together the two genius’ created a schedule of casinos and gambling halls along with earnings goals for each place. The actual act of counting cards wouldn’t prove difficult for either man, however organising their actions was their only defense against garnering notice. 

Mycroft was having a surprisingly good time playing cards. He took his counting slow, always doing his best to increase his bets in small increments and never left the tables when the deck soured. There were days where he’d leave with less money than he started, but most days were profitable. His mental alacrity allowed him to remain aloof and unfocused on the deck while making sure his count stayed on point. He found himself joking with Sherlock between the tables, occasionally leaning over to tease his brother when he’d lose a hand, asking him to borrow chips when he wanted to increase his bet or ran out. 

Even with all their differences, Sherlock too enjoyed their scheme. Whereas Mycroft remained calm, Sherlock appeared to be exactly what casinos looked for, reckless and emotional. He never walked away down but occasionally he made sure to only come out ahead by a few Euros. When he lost a hand he’d swear and rail and abuse the cards, sometimes even walking away in the middle of a game. At some point during their venture the consulting detective even acquired a talisman, a small metal disk of Saint Luke which he spun between his fingers while waiting on other players. Like his brother though, Sherlock greatly enjoyed playing cards. He found it easy and untaxing. He had more than enough leftover brain power to keep a watchful eye on his surroundings. 

Working together, the brothers accrued a sizeable stash of money within a week. Content with their efforts, as well as their amicable attitude, Mycroft finally found the courage to address Sherlock about picking up their work.

“Sherlock,” he opened one evening, folding a newspaper in half. “We haven’t discussed our mark for some time. Have we hit a dead end?”

Sherlock channeled his frustration with the pace of their progress into a sigh.He gathered his thoughts and reviewed their situation, “We have a mark. We know he’s always on his guard, we know he doesn’t trust anyone, and we know he’s dangerous. What we need to know are his movements and any patterns we can capitalize on. The plan should be the same as,” his words stuttered, “in Marseilles. Yes?” 

“We corner him and kill him? We got lucky in Marseilles. Lucky.”

Mycroft frowned deeply.

“I don’t like relying on chance. I cheat at cards.”

“And you do it so well,” said Sherlock. He considered his brother’s point, “Let’s not corner him then, if we know where he’ll be we can find a place to see him; one where he can’t see us. We can get him from afar.”

“That’s still risky. More of a chance of being seen. More of a chance for a missed shot. My accuracy at a distance is not fantastic.”

“I’ve had practice,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft looked down at his hands, thinking. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with this?”

“Comfortable with what?”

“Let’s be honest, you had a bit of a breakdown, post Baillet.”

Even as he flinched at her name, Sherlock’s first reaction was to vehemently deny his brother’s words. He suppressed it realising the pointlessness of such reaction. Mycroft had carried him high and unconscious onto a train. They’d slept in beds only feet apart and he’d watched the consulting detective wake up covered in sweat with deep bags under his eyes. Even if the politician couldn’t fathom the extent of the damage killing the frenchwoman had caused, he had certainly seen enough.

So instead the dead man shrugged and answered choppily, “That was close contact, this won’t be. They’re completely different. I’ll be fine.” He paused and considered their situation, “Unless you’re looking for reasons to back out? I wouldn’t hold it against you if you want to go home.”

“And miss you freaking out again?” Mycroft scoffed. “Never.”

He twisted in his chair, his back cracking audibly. Admittedly he was surprised that his spine hadn’t given him much trouble.

“Then it’s settled, I suppose. We find the mark, we strike quickly with a blow that is utterly conclusive, and we vacate to…To? Anywhere? Do you want to move deeper into Europe?”

“Russia.” Sherlock turned to his luggage for the documents he’d taken from Baillet’s before remembering he’d left the paper copies and transferred the information to his mind palace. Hastily he tried to cover the mistake by stretching, “Marseilles had notes on what looked like a human trafficking operation centred in St. Petersburg.” 

“Human rights violations in Russia, how novel,” Mycroft yawned. “If I make travel arrangements for Friday, can we have this all wrapped up by then?”

“Why not, it’s good to have goals.”

* * *

The brothers put their plan into action, discreetly taking turns to track Guy’s movements and account for his days. They were lucky, since the German didn’t trust anyone he followed a fairly rigid schedule that limited his movements. By Wednesday afternoon Sherlock felt comfortable with their information.

“If we shoot him on his way home from the club we’ll give ourselves the most time between his death and the border.” He mused aloud, “Also we can go straight to the train station afterwards.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Whoever has the cleaner shot will take it, yes?”

He’d taken to carrying his weapon constantly, getting used to the feeling of the gun concealed against his hip. It always felt heavy and cumbersome, and he was unsure he’d ever grow accustomed to it. The beretta was a nagging reminder that he was far from home and out of his element.

“Agreed.” 

Without any visible emotion Sherlock methodically took his weapon apart and cleaned it, using his always meticulous attention to detail to ensure no dirt or dust remained. Practical as the act was it mainly served to steady and ground him as he dealt with the idea of murdering again. Replacing it under his shirt, he reached out and flipedp up Mycroft’s clothes, pulling his gun from its holster. Without uttering a word he repeated the process, finding comfort in the motions. 

Weapons ready he set about packing up his things so they could flee. Fake it until you make it, he thought as he kept his face smooth and free of turmoil. The dead man retreated into himself, hiding the broken, and putting up a solid wall between his feelings and everything else. 

Mycroft tucked his weapon back into place when Sherlock finished with it. He’d already packed, and was more than ready to leave their sub-par accommodations behind. 

_ When we’re home again I’m taking a year long bath and then sleeping indefinitely.  _

He watched Sherlock gather his things and tried to read his brother’s emotions. The younger Holmes was well adept at hiding what he felt, but Mycroft still could pick up subtle cues that things weren’t quite right. 

_ This is abysmally unproductive, for everyone. I hope you know what you’re doing, little brother. _

“Let’s not waste anymore time,” Mycroft said, picking up his bag and satchel. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

“Excellent, glad you agree.”

* * *

The two men left their room and crossed the city without speaking. They barely had to look at one another and yet moved with a coordinated synchronization that spoke of a natural bond between them. While neither would (or perhaps could) ever acknowledge it, they cared for one another and their self-assigned mission had so far served to remind them of that fact at every turn. 

Quietly they set up from a vantage point they’d already agreed upon, four stories up on the roof of a new and half empty residential building. With easy roof access to two other buildings, it would allow the brother’s the best view of their target, as well as a quick escape route. Checking his mobile for the fifth time, Sherlock made a small, impatient noise before settling down with his back to the street to wait. 

“Pay attention,” Mycroft grunted. “We may only have one small window of opportunity, if we miss it because you’re loafing...”

Mycroft stood a ways away, still within view of Sherlock, but with a completely different street angle. His position was less than ideal and the wind wasn’t with him, but it covered an area that Sherlock couldn’t quite reach.

In deference to his brother’s words Sherlock turned around into a crouch, his knees balancing him against the wall. For nearly an hour he didn’t move but when a clock tower rang out at two and they still had no sign of their target he slumped down again. “We’ve at least an hour until he shows,” the younger Holmes complained. 

Mycroft hooked his shirt collar over his nose in an attempt to cut the bite of the cold air. They’d been on the roof for close to three hours, waiting in position for their mark. Mycroft desperately wanted a cigarette, but he knew that even a small light in the cover of darkness could damn them.  

At three Sherlock resumed his watchful position, balancing on the balls of his feet,, his weight spread out, his gun at the ready. Bar time. Guy always left at ten minutes to close. He’d be on his way now. 

_ We’ve been conservative here. Far more so than in France... _

Images of Baillet again assaulted Sherlock who tensed his inert muscles in physical reaction to them. His body tried to shield itself from the pain. Berating his weakness he used the panic of his memory palace to lock the frenchwoman away, she couldn’t interfere with the work. Nothing could interfere with the work. 

_ We’ve played it safe. We’ll be untraceable. No one knows we’re in the country. Even if the local police are smart enough to trace the shots to this roof (and by God, I hope they can at least do that) they’ll lose us immediately. The tickets are booked. Are the tickets booked? Yes, they’re booked. _

And so the consulting detective kept still on the roof, lost in his thoughts, already planning for their next move. Waiting. 

At quarter to four the echoing of footsteps echoed upwards. Guy was approaching. 

Sherlock checked his gun, blew a few puffs of warm air into his hands, and dropped one knee to the ground as extra precaution against recoil. He was ready. 

But no shots rang out. His gun tracked the man down the street. An opportunity for a clean shot came and went. Twice. 

No shot.

When Sherlock hesitated the first time, Mycroft assumed his shot wasn’t clear. When it happened again, he knew it wasn’t coincidence. 

“Bloody hell, you’re useless!”

He scrambled towards his brother and shoved him aside, relying on reserved energy and adrenaline to assist in locating and targeting his mark. The gun went off twice in quick succession, and the moment he saw Guy double over, he turned away.

“RUN.”

As if he hadn’t just frozen at a crucial moment, Sherlock set off after his brother, catching up and keeping pace, unknowingly reconnecting them as he matched Mycroft’s strides. 

As Mycroft put distance between himself and the crime scene, he began internally composing his next lecture. His blood boiled and his chest burned, in part from sprinting and in part from rage. This was SHERLOCK’S vigilante cause, this was SHERLOCK’S vendetta, and yet the prat couldn’t bear to pull the trigger? 

_ He’s going to get us both killed. _

The knowledge that he’d just murdered a man in his own right was the least of Mycroft’s worries. He’d process that later. 

Two buildings over they climbed down from the rooftops. The bureaucrat rounded a corner and stepped beneath a darkened awning to catch his breath. They were just a few blocks from the train station; they couldn’t arrive looking as though they’d just run a marathon, it’d be too suspicious. He set his bag down and wiped his brow, before turning to his brother, and whispering harshly, “What the hell was that?”

“A momentary lapse,” Sherlock immediately replied, hardly out of breath. He offered Mycroft a hand towel he swiped from the hotel bathroom, “Make sure to get the back your neck as well. And maybe under your arms. You should really take up running.”

The look Mycroft gave him was murderous. He snatched up the towel and through gritted teeth replied, “We will continue this discussion from the privacy of a train compartment.”

Setting his jaw, he turned away, and refused to acknowledge Sherlock again.


	7. Chapter 7

Once in their sleeper cabin, Mycroft turned on his brother.

“Is this a game to you?” He spat, shoving his luggage under his seat. “I’m trying to be patient, really, I am, but you’re making it overwhelmingly difficult.”

_ Oh yes, getting massively high, passing out, and exposing myself to your mercy. That’s my idea of a game. Or maybe you mean all the death? Because yes, of course, this is what I do for fun really- plan murders. No wait; that’s you.  _

“Of course it isn’t,” Sherlock scoffed as he, more calmly, put his knapsack under the opposite bench. “I told you, I had a momentary lapse. I’ve dealt with the problem.” 

_ I’ve locked her away and she won’t get out again. Not like that. _

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, thank you for taking care of the situation, and I can promise it shan’t happen again.”

“You can’t make a promise like that,” Mycroft replied. “Sherlock, you’re emotionally disturbed and it’s compromising this entire ordeal.”

He sat down dramatically, flopping back against the too-hard cushions of his seat. 

“I am not begrudging you for being reactive. I am readily concerned that it will happen again. What if next time we aren’t a ways away? If that had been close range it could have gotten ugly. Or worse, what if you freeze up in the middle of a fight? Hesitating then could be fatal. And you’re supposed to be able to back me up! I can’t trust you to come to my aid if I get into trouble if this is how you respond…”

Sherlock took a deep breath and held it for as long as he could before blowing it out. 

_ Stay calm, don’t prove his point. Stay calm. Show him you’re calm. Don’t yell at him. Don’t walk away. Stay calm. Make your point. Stay calm. _

“You need to trust me. I know what the problem is and I’ve put a fix on it. I won’t freeze again.” He paused to control himself again, but couldn’t quite keep all the venom out as he finished, “I’m not emotionally compromised. I’m not a child.” 

Mycroft folded his hands across his chest.

“If I see even a hint of hesitation again- just one!- I’m personally dragging you back to England and admitting you to a psyche ward.”

For one brief, terrifying moment Sherlock saw red. His entire body tensed as if Mycroft’s words had an accompanying physical manifestation that was poised to deliver a blow. Every base instinct in the consulting detective’s body told him to fight the threat. To beat it. To not just murder it but to destroy it. To wipe it so cleanly and completely from existence that it may well have never existed in the first place. And while all this happened in his head, one hand went to his gun ready to pull it out and take action. Before he could manage to do more than brush the fastening of his holster, Sherlock marshaled his intellect and took control again. It had all happened in the space of three or maybe four seconds and the consulting detective was sure his brother knew what had nearly happened but he only said, “I’d like to see you try."

Mycroft stared at Sherlock, lips parted slightly in an expression of shock. 

_ You couldn’t kill a stranger and yet you instinctively move to turn your weapon against me. _

The realization rippled through him, biting worse than any bullet would have. His mouth twitched and he made a noise as though he meant to respond, but it was feeble and caught in his throat. He turned away, curling in on himself, done for the night. 

_ He’s tired, and reactive, and you’re pushing him. Let it go. _

But the damage had been done, and for the rest of the night the image of Sherlock’s darkened eyes plagued him, to the point where sleep was elusive and focusing was impossible.

The consulting detective couldn’t sleep either and with a forty hour journey ahead he didn’t even try. After taking some time to ensure that his panic room was sufficiently locked down so as to prevent another outburst (or freeze) he began to fidget in his seat. So much of the journey so far had consisted hurrying somewhere only to wait for a seemingly endless amount of time. He needed an outlet. He also needed to get away from Mycroft who quite clearly wasn’t sleeping either but just lying with his face turned away from his brother, in a still, but not calm, repose. 

“I’ll be back,” Sherlock murmured softly before stalking out of the cramped cabin. 

He paced the narrow aisles of the train, keeping his head down, and muttering softly to himself in German. No doubt to outsiders he looked crazy but this suited the dead man’s purposes perfectly; he didn’t want to attract any attention. Well, any serious attention. 

Strangers don’t look at crazy people, they think it safer not to make eye contact, and not to stare. Children might peek, but adults fear of catching the crazy or of being forced to interact. More than once on a case Sherlock had used a guise of insanity to escape notice in a crowd. He knew that if asked to describe all the people in a room the average man (and weren’t most so dreadfully beneath average?) would only mention, “and that crazy one.”

So he paced to burn off energy and waste time. 

After some time he finally began to tire and made the decision to return to their cabin to sleep. As Sherlock made his way back down the train he noticed a young man begin to follow him. 

_ Native German, twenty-five to twenty-eight years old. College-educated and considering a graduate degree. Enjoys living a large and expensive lifestyle. Which he pays for how? Ah. Thief. He prefers to burgle but a capable pickpocket. And I’m his next target. Oh you fool, you should exercise more caution if you want to make a living doing this.  _

Without changing his speed or body language, Sherlock prepared to grab the man. Sure enough, two cars from his cabin, the pickpocket “passed” him and in the process took his wallet. In response, Sherlock tripped and reached out to grab hold of his thief for balance. His mask dropped as soon as he was sure of his grip. He pushed the muzzle of his gun into the other man’s back, and whispered, “Bleiben Sie ruhig, Ruhe suchen, und gehen Sie weiter.” Together the two slowly made their way through the rest of the train and into the compartment where Mycroft was still awake. 

“I found us a new friend,” he muttered darkly.

Mycroft rolled over, hearing two sets of footfalls enter the cabin even before Sherlock spoke.

“Jesus... put the gun away!” Mycroft chided as he stood to close and lock the compartment door. 

The man was clearly a thief, and presumably had attempted to rob the younger Holmes- but was that reason enough to bring him back to their quarters, to draw unnecessary attention to themselves? The more powerless Mycroft felt, the more reckless Sherlock became.

“Why did you bring him back here?” the civil servant asked, trying to keep his tone from being accusatory.

“He has my wallet.”

“I’ll buy you a new wallet!”

“Will you buy me a new identification card? Because I’ll need two, one with my name and one with  **my name** .” Sherlock pushed the boy onto his bench. 

“Wallet,” he demanded holding out his hand, “and don’t pretend you can’t speak English, you did a semester at Cambridge.”

“Oxford, it was Oxford.”

The consulting detective took another look, “Ah, yes. Oxford.” 

The moment of normalcy between the two brothers lightened Sherlock’s mood and he sat next to Mycroft, slinging one leg up across the door to bar the boy’s exit. “Wallet?”

Quickly it flew across the small gap. Sherlock caught it easily and returned it to his pocket. “Care to tell me why you chose me for a mark?” he asked, his voice unnaturally light.

“Please, let me go. I am just trying to feed my family-”

“Bollocks, you live alone, unless you’re counting your purebred Russian Blue. And with a cat like that, I’d say you’re not exactly struggling to feed yourself,” Mycroft countered. He grabbed the pickpocket’s wrist and twisted it behind his back, forcing him to the ground.

“Hey, hey, easy! I’m not resisting! Don’t hurt me!”

“We’re not going to hurt you. We’re shopping,” the Englishman replied, examining the watch on the smaller man’s wrist. Nodding his approval he undid the clasp and tucked it away in his own pocket. “To Trisha, love Dejan,” he commented, noting the inscription on the back of the timepiece. “Do you moonlight as a woman? I won’t judge.”

The thief struggled. Mycroft applied more weight between his shoulder blades and his movements eased up. 

“My brother still has his weapon handy. Don’t push your luck. He doesn’t take kindly to strangers and he’s in a foul mood.”

His hands slipped into the criminal’s trousers, seeking other treasures and trinkets. Before long he’d amassed a stack of papers, jewelry, and a handsome looking pocket knife. 

“Not a bad haul,” Mycroft commented. He was beginning to sweat from the strain of keeping the other man down. 

“Brother dear, will you take a look at those documents? I want to know exactly what he was carrying, and why.”

The younger Holmes took the papers from his brother along with a signet ring from the pile. “I like this,” he remarked, slipping it on his pinkie as he opened up the tightly folded and sealed bundle. He skimmed at first before grasping what he was reading going back to read line by line. The longer he took the more their captive fidgeted. Sherlock noticed his discomfort and took an extra minutes before speaking to let him squirm. 

“So stealing isn’t enough for you to get your kicks now? Or perhaps you got caught pilfering from the wrong person and were offered a deal only slightly better than death?”

Sherlock looked over at Mycroft, “It would seem our newest friend is an associate of recently dearly departed friend.”

“Of course he is. I don’t just stick my hands in anyone’s pockets.”

With the use of one perfectly skeptical eyebrow, Sherlock didn’t need to say a word. As he maintained eye contact with Mycroft he spoke to the German, “Well? That wasn’t rhetorical, which was it?”

“Both,” came the sullen reply. “Robbed the wrong house but their deal was quite a bit better than the alternative. Five hundred Euros just to take some docs on a train for a few hours.”

“What was your destination?” Mycroft continued. 

“Belarus.”

Sherlock flashed a dangerous smile, “Not anymore. You’ve got a bad shoulder. Why don’t you take our cabin, stay on until St. Petersburg. We’ll ah-- take care of these for you in Mogilev.” 

“I haven’t got a bad-”

Mycroft’s elbow came down on the German’s scapula, which popped audibly under the pressure and weight of the larger man. He crumpled, groaning and wriggling in pain. Mycroft stood, confident he was too preoccupied to run.

The consulting detective stripped the thing white sheets from his bunk and created a few makeshift ropes. He tossed a pillowcase to Mycroft, “Gag him,” he suggested with a smile. 

* * *

“I’m glad we found a pit-stop, I was getting cabin fever.” Mycroft sighed wearily. 

Safely on the platform, he looked to his brother, who held the stack of pilfered letters in his hands. “May I see them?” 

Sherlock passed him the documents and he scanned them, searching for some direction.

“...Poachers? That’s different...It looks like there’s a shipment of animal parts arriving tomorrow evening at a designated checkpoint in the northwest quadrant of the city. It’s on the river, looks like another set of abandoned industrial buildings.”

“Actually the trade and sale of illegal and exotic animals is quite profitable. Multi-billion dollar industry if some low level research is to be believed.” 

As the pair walked out of the station Sherlock hailed a cab. In a mix of broken Belarusian and English he asked for an inexpensive hotel nearby. Neither man spoke again until they were safely in their room. Dark and shabby, it fit the downward trend of their accommodations and so Sherlock felt right at home. Mycroft surveyed the four walls, single bed, floor, and ceiling with disgust. 

“Lovely. Put up some kitschy wicker baskets and ceramic chickens and it’ll be just like Mummy’s.”

The Englishman sighed.

“If we make it out of this alive, I’m booking myself a week at a spa.”

He reached for his computer and pulled up a map of the surrounding area, settling into a silent search for their next destination. His fingers were stiff as he typed.

“Christ, it’s cold.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to unpack his things. He stripped the bed of its topmost coverings, inspected what remained, and laid down. Mycroft could research for the time being, he was exhausted. 

At his brother’s complaint though Sherlock stood and stalked around the room, locating an old coil radiator in the bathroom. He fiddled a bit with the knob and the thing kicked to life. After a few minutes a weak bit of heat came off it. 

“If you barricade yourself in the toilet you may be able to warm up a bit,” he offered as he returned to bed. 

Mycroft nodded, surprised at the gesture. 

“Thank you...I’ll try. Are you going to sleep?”

“Mmmm. I think I’ve finally,” he tapped his head, “settled down enough.”

“Glad to hear it,” Mycroft openly acknowledged. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He barricaded himself into the bathroom, but it made little difference to his chilled state. After a good while he gave up and joined his brother, who was already fast asleep.

* * *

It had been a long while since Mycroft lazily woke tangled in a lover’s limbs. The haze of sleep still hung over him, but he was acutely aware that he was warm, and the space outside the blankets was cold, and the body that curled so nicely against him was a more than welcome addition on this chilly morning. He shifted, settling himself a bit closer to his partner, and moved to draw his boyfriend’s arm around his middle. 

“Morning, love,” he breathed softly, shifting his bare feet under the warmth of his lover’s calf.

He could feel the other man’s erection beginning to stir against the curve of his hip. While morning sex wasn’t Mycroft’s favorite thing, he could be swayed now and again. It had been some time, and he was feeling amicable. 

_ This is pleasant. Why don’t we spend more lazy mornings in bed? _

_...We? _

_ ….. _

_ ….. _

_ ….. _

_ You’re very, very single, Mycroft. _

He sat up so quickly that he nearly fell out of bed, scrambling away from his brother.

“NO, stop, enough,  _ NO _ .”

He was a flurry of panic and nonsense, and all that mattered was putting distance between himself and Sherlock’s penis.

“Stop shifting,” came Sherlock’s voice, petulant and half muffled by a pillow. Until recently the rest of his face had been warmed by his brother’s shoulder but now cold air hit him, “and come back here you’ve let all the cold air in.” 

After a moment he added, “Enough what?” 

“Enough of your bits near my bottom! What are you doing?!” Mycroft felt the need to grope for the cover of the sheet, despite being fully clothed.

Even barely awake Sherlock managed to lace his voice with considerable disapproval at such childish behavior. 

“My bits? Oh for fuck’s sake Mycroft. All men experience erections in their sleep. Between the two of us we’ve had anywhere from six to ten over the course of the night. It’s a perfectly normal biological function and it has nothing to do with what you would consider ‘sexual arousal.’ And even if nocturnal penile tumescence wasn’t a valid and scientifically recognized phenomena, which it is, you are my brother.”

The consulting detective couldn’t help but adding, “If that wasn’t a valid reason, which it is, I’m celibate as well you know.”

Speech finished, Sherlock rolled over so as to protect his apparently sensitive brother from the visual of him kneading down the unwanted erection. Considerately he kept his calves on top of Mycroft’s feet,

“Nocturnal penile tumescence- why do you even know that term?” Mycroft scoffed, pulling a bit further away. “Don’t play with it, you’ll make it worse.”

“Occasionally murderously distraught lovers are able to hold my attention long enough to learn something,” Sherlock replied crypticly. “I’m not playing with anything, just give me a moment. And stop wiggling, you’re letting more cold in.” 

“What, you want me to come wiggle next to you?! Help you along a bit?”

He rolled out of bed, intent on brushing his teeth. 

“Get up, we have to rescue cats or something of the like. I don’t even know anymore.”

Sherlock didn’t respond for a few minutes. “I think at some point they become lions,” he finally piped up. 

“I’m done talking about your loins, Sherlock!” Mycroft countered, with a surprising amount of mirth. 

_ Playful banter, that must be a good sign? We’re going to be fine, just fine. _

The younger Holmes appeared in the bathroom door, stretched luxuriously, and crowded into the small space to wash his hands and brush his teeth. “As am I. Back to square one then.” 

“Could you wait just two minutes for me to finish?” Mycroft popped his hip to the side, boxing Sherlock out of the space by the sink. 

* * *

After taking scope of the neighbourhood surrounding their lodging the brothers again found themselves with only one solid piece of information to work on. Tapping into a drug ring had required little more than their natural intelligence and some patience, but neither man had experience with anything remotely connected to poaching.

Sherlock scrolled through various web pages absorbing basic statistics on the market for dead (and alive) exotic animals. “Do you know how much a dead tiger costs?” he asked, openly aghast.  

“More than a live one,” Mycroft replied, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder. He let out a low whistle as he examined the numbers. “I would have guessed a couple of thousand pounds, at best. That seems egregious.” 

“I suppose you’re paying for the act of killing as well as the finished product,” replied Sherlock, already realigning his thoughts to their new reality. The more he read though the more complicated the entire procedure became. Without a singularly good stroke of luck not only would the brother’s have had no information whatsoever to work from, but they also would have missed this facet of Moriarty’s network completely. 

“Do we just show up guns blazing in the middle of their meetup?” he mused aloud. 

Mycroft huffed.

“What if we considered a diplomatic approach?”

He picked up the pilfered papers, perplexed by their precarious position.

“We’re civilized men, all this shooting and running is beneath us. There’s got to be a better way.”

_ Gun shy? _

The question burned at Sherlock’s cheeks as it tried to push its way out of his mouth. He held back knowing that not only did Mycroft have a point but that it would be far, far too hypocritical of Sherlock to push the issue. 

Still, he scoffed at the idea of diplomacy. Unintentionally he parroted words that less than a year ago John had thrown at him, “What, we just knock on the door? ‘Oh, hi, we thought we’d just come in and take a wander around your highly illegal and secret animal smuggling ring.’ ‘Really? Great! Come on in, kettle’s just boiled.’?”

“We pose as police, bust the ring. Secure the space then alert the proper authorities.”

“And somehow manage to wander away before anyone has a chance to ask how we knew enough to get there?”

“This isn’t a spy movie, they aren’t going to ask questions or draw out lengthy conversation. They’ll be panicked, no time for the how-and-why, as long as we keep control of the space.”

He thumbed through the papers again.

“There can’t be many of them. The groundwork would all be done by poachers off-site. These are middlemen, and the key to getting away with things like this is having as few people as possible involved. If they get lippy, we claim that one of them narked. They’ll turn on one another, do the work for us.”

Mycroft handed the papers back to Sherlock.

“Trust me. I’ve made a career out of limiting involvement and avoiding conflict.”  

“And you think you can mix that with all this legwork? I’d have thought one canceled out the other.”

The barb and it’s accompanying smirk lacked their usual sharpness, they sounded more like a formality than anything approaching actual grievance. 

“Hey, I’m pulling my weight. And mind you, I’ve got more weight to pull,” the elder Holmes countered, “So technically I’m doing more work than you are. Like always.”

The familiarity of teasing was comforting, and Sherlock hadn’t outright dismissed his idea, which was rare. 

_ Two steps backwards, one step forwards. That’s how it’s always been. _

The consulting detective chuckled.

_ Fat jokes about himself and I’m actually considering using his scheme. Look how far we’ve both matured. Mummy would have a heart attack to see us spend so much time together.  _

The thought spurred another which Sherlock voiced, “Mummy- what does Mummy think? Did she cry at the funeral or did she support father the entire time?”

“Tight lipped, but surprisingly dewy. At one point she did say she expected it would someday happen,” Mycroft recalled. She’d also implied that Sherlock’s death was entirely his fault. He’d done his best to quarter and ignore memories of the funeral, but when drawn out, they were particularly vivid. 

“It was a long day.” 

“And now you’ve gone all tight-lipped yourself,” observed Sherlock. “I’m alive, I’m in front of you, and you’ve spent the majority of this trip stupendously upset at me. You can stop feeling sad about my funeral now.” 

He knew immediately that his attempt at a joke hadn’t handed.    


His tried again, “Time was short, I told you as soon as I could.”

“I know. And I’m not going to criticize what you did because I think it’s noble. I just wish you would have come to me, I could have helped-”

He shook his head.

“Never mind. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s in the past, and we’re moving on. Soon we’ll be back in England, you can go back to your life, I can go back to mine, and that will be that.”

_ Noble, noble, noble, noble, noble. Noble? _

Sherlock tried and failed not to gape at Mycroft’s word choice. 

“Indeed.” 

He played with the papers resting in his lap. 

“So I procure us some police uniforms, we wait a few days for our meeting date, and we confront them. Easy as that?” 

“Easy as that.”

* * *

Four days passed and the brothers spent the majority of it in their room. Sherlock left once for an afternoon returning, as promised, with two crisply pressed police uniforms on thin wire hangers, but otherwise they stayed indoors, wasting away time until the rendezvous. 

On the appointed night the men readies themselves, their movements in the cramped motel room efficient and practical. Fixing a hat on top of his slicked back curls Sherlock remarked, “I feel positively nocturnal doing these things. I can’t wait to solve something in the daylight again.”

“I don’t know, I think I’ve missed my calling- don’t you think I look rather good in uniform?” Mycroft questioned as he brought his belt in a notch, consciously aware that he was now wearing it tighter than he had been at the start of their trip. 

“Are you ready?”

“More so than usual,” returned Sherlock with a self-aware grimace. “Am I to presume that you’d like to do the initial talking portion of today’s programme?”

“Oh yes, you know how much I love to hear myself talk,” Mycroft agreed. He stopped Sherlock at the door and added, “We’ll be in an enclosed space, and we’ll be outnumbered. If things go awry don’t wait for me. Just get out.”

“If things go awry I will under no circumstance, ‘just get out’,” Sherlock spat his brother’s words back at him. 

He made eye contact with Mycroft, “Don’t respond, don’t analyse just take it for what it--” his hands flew about, indicating how uncomfortable what he wanted to say made him. 

“I will never, under any circumstance on this journey leave you behind.” 

With a decisive nod Sherlock proceeded to do just that, walking out of the hotel room and down the hall leaving Mycroft standing at the door gaping at where his brother had just stood. 

* * *

Mycroft held his breath as he reached for the doorknob, gun drawn in his opposite hand. 

“Cover me,” he whispered on the exhale, moving swiftly and silently to open the door. 

“PALICYJA!” the Brit spat, his accent flawless as he continued in Belarusian, “Everyone on the ground!”

The room erupted. 

Mycroft immediately counted six men- four business men and two bodyguards. Discounting the tradesmen, he focused his attention on the muscle, who had both leapt towards the door, drawing their weapons in a frenzy of panic and adrenaline. Someone was shouting and shots were fired, but Mycroft held his ground. There was no need to panic, the shots had come from behind him.

_ Sherlock. _

Entering the warehouse with Mycroft, Sherlock made sure to stay three steps behind and two steps to the right of his brother, his gun already out and up as the politician spoke. Seeing one of the two men fumble with the catch on his holster, he made full use of their temporary advantage, raising his gun to fire a single shot into the air and a second between the bodyguards before parroting his brother’s Belarusian, “Everyone on the ground!” 

He leveled his gun at the best dressed man in the room who was still standing. “Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” he asked completely composed. “Weapons, throw them to that corner,” Sherlock jerked his head right and slowly five of the six men began to comply. 

Fishing a packet of zip ties from a pocket with his free hand, the consulting detective tossed them to Mycroft, “Hands first then feet, I’ll cover you.” 

In a lower voice he added in English, “I like this kind of diplomacy.”

_ So much for me doing the talking,  _ Mycroft thought as he cautiously but purposefully moved to approach the men. He went for the guards first, taking care to watch where their weapons were and whether their hands were occupied. With Sherlock covering him he crouched and began zip tying their hands behind their backs. The first struggled, but when it was clear Mycroft was in control the others complied. 

“We don’t want any trouble, the easier you make this, the easier we’ll be on you,” Mycroft grunted, pressing one man’s shoulders down towards the floor.

“Lucky for you,” Sherlock chimed in, “You don’t matter.”

“You though,” he turned back to the well dressed man. He remained the only one in the room still on his feet and still with a weapon on him, albeit inaccessible as he kept his hands up, and the youngest Holmes turned his full deductive powers on. “You matter most right now. Native to the city, late thirties, you trained in the law but court wasn’t as exciting as you thought it would be. This though? Oh ho, this is much better. You get a thrill with every deal you make. I mean the money? It’s nice, but it’s not why you do this. You like that swirling feeling in your gut that comes with success. It’s better than sex has ever been isn’t it? Is that why it’s been so long? Girls just don’t do it for you now?”

“How?” the man questioned with wide, confused eyes.  

“Come now,” Sherlock gestured at Mycroft and back with his free hand, “Do we look like the type to run around freeing animals?” His smirk was deadly, “I can’t speak for my associate but I don’t give a-” he paused to find the right combination of words in Belarusian, “-flying fuck about the animals. I’m here for you.”

Mycroft finished tying off the last of the other men and stood still wary about how far to trust Sherlock’s showboating. 

“The king is dead and I have his key. Long live the king.”

While his Belarusian was far from fluent, Sherlock’s message clearly reached the smuggler who bolted. 

“Dammit,” growled Sherlock in English even as he took off behind the man, “Don’t let the rest go,” he yelled at his brother, “See if they’ve any good guns.”

“How did you let one slip away?!” Mycroft wailed as he secured a final set of hands. Sherlock’s pontificating and gesticulating had blown their cover, and now one of their marks was loose. The politician found himself wondering whether cocksure Sherlock was any better than a Sherlock paralyzed by fear and emotion.

_ Nothing is ever easy. _

Eyes trained on his prisoners, Mycroft surveyed the room. It was a combined workspace and storage unit, packed full of goods. The genius estimated after a brief scan that he was surrounded by several hundred thousand dollars worth of animal skins and parts, in varying degrees of quality and decomposition. Other than the obvious there were no weapons readily available, but he was sure with a bit of hunting something would turn up.

He began opening drawers and cabinets, most of which were filled with paperwork. 

_ Sherlock’s taking a while...I hope he hasn’t gotten into more trouble. How long do I wait for him? We should have picked a rendezvous po- _

“JESUS CHRIST!”

Mycroft stumbled backwards from the drawer he’d opened, pulse racing, hair standing on end.

He leaned forward just a bit until the drawer’s contents were visible, but squirmed backwards again the moment he confirmed that it contained a massive live snake.

“I’m done. That’s my limit. I’m done.” 

He slipped his glock into its holster and returned to watching their hostages. Babysitting, he could handle. He drew the line at boa constrictors. 

* * *

Sherlock chased the smuggler straight through to the back of the warehouse, weaving through broken and cracked crates and rusting towers of shelves. Unable to catch his prey he also never lost sight of him. Turning a corner the consulting detective saw his target’s target, a single door tucked away in the corner against the back wall. 

Bursting forth with as much as speed as he has, Sherlock laid his hands on his coat, but couldn’t quite grip it. He shouted out in frustration and grappled unsuccessfully to keep hold on the smuggler’s body. The man twisted out of reach and tumbled out of the door. 

“Fuck.”

Sherlock picked himself up off the floor, leaving his hat and jacket behind, and followed the man outside. Despite the dark he tracked the quick sound of footfalls to the right, “Stop! стоп!” 

With wide eyes the man turned around and stopped abruptly having hit a dead end, his head whipping in all directions as he looked for an escape. Not finding it he locked eyes with Sherlock who stared back and slowed down to approach the man as he were a lost child. Uncharacteristically he held his hands up as he approached so the smuggler could see he didn’t mean to shoot. 

“Careful, yes?” 

The smuggler rushed at Sherlock throwing him against the wall to get past.

“Hey!” shouted the consulting detective as the chase began all over. 

After another five minutes the smuggler looked back at Sherlock who was still nipping at his heels. Their eyes connected once more for just a second before he vaulted the railing and without regret plunged into the Dnieper. Sherlock rushed to the edge and peered down into the murky black. The churning water moved violently and white foam slapped against the concrete walkway he stood on. 

_ I suppose that’s one way to eliminate the enemy.  _

He took his time returning to the warehouse, picking up his coat and hat as he reentered through the backdoor. 

“And how’re things here?” he asked casually once he found Mycroft. 

* * *

“And he just- jumped? That’s that?” Mycroft’s tone was incredulous as he hurried from the scene, stripping off his gear. Phone calls had been made, and the authorities were on their way, leaving nothing for the brothers but to flee. 

“Are you sure he’s dead?” 

“That’s that. Not a word just a look. There’s no way anyone could survive a blind jump straight down. Even if he was only wounded the water’s cold, he’d freeze in the currents.” 

Under his breath he added, “Idiot,” and it was unclear if he was addressing himself or the dead smuggler. 

* * *

Back in the motel Sherlock set about immediately packing his bag, eager to continue on their journey after first truly successful stop.

“What are you doing? Pack up!” he urged his brother. “Don’t tell me you’re tired after a bit of legwork.”

“I am tired! The adrenaline’s worn off,” Mycroft shot back. “Why are you being so hasty? It’s the middle of the night, we need to wait until morning. We’ll move with the crowds.”

Throwing his bag down with a huff Sherlock sat on the corner of the bed, “Fine.”

The consulting detective scooted up to lean against the headboard and stretched out, hands steepled over his lips, “I’m not sleeping tonight so you needn’t worry about any erections ruining your beauty sleep”

“Fine, but if you’re testy tomorrow, I’m going to let you have it.”

Mycroft made sure his things were packed before laying down for a fitful night of sleep. His restless mind plagued his dreams with shadows and gunshots. He woke with the sun, seeking caffeine and warmth, with little regard for anything else.

The brothers soon found themselves on a nearly identical train to the one they’d abandoned on less than a week prior. Just as before they settled into a private compartment, but unlike their last journey, this trip passed without pickpockets or incidents. 


	8. Chapter 8

Pulling into the station at St Petersburg in late afternoon the brothers immediately headed to the nearest second hand store for warmer coats. 

Once the pair were properly outfitted i, Mycroft led them to their accommodations, much more amicable now that he was warm. He immediately settled into a chair once they were in their room, acknowledging Sherlock only briefly.

“I’ll be in my mind palace. If you need anything, ask now.”

“Why would I need anything?”

“I don’t know, I’m just being polite- you know what, never mind, I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

When the older Holmes came back from his mind palace he found a steaming hot plate of potatoes alongside a plump strip of a pale fish and a sickeningly sweet cup of tea. He also found himself alone, although the sound of running water and the slightly damp feel of the room told him where he could find his brother. 

For his part Sherlock spent the hour productively, finding food, unpacking parts of his bag, and cleaning the dirt of the train off of himself. Stepping out of the bathroom he felt ready to continue their mission. 

Eager to get to it he immediately pounced on his brother, “Shall we review what work needs to be done?”

“You brought me food…” Mycroft blinked, still a bit disoriented as he readjusted to the brightness of the room. “Thank you. Yes, we can discuss.”

He tucked into his plate of fish, surprised to find that it wasn’t half bad.

“We’re after a human trafficking ring, we’re going to need to be extra cautious. In my experience they’re ruthless.”

Sherlock stole a potato as he considered the warning, “Anyone who can look at a human and only see a piece of flesh lacks something.” 

The casual remarked showcased a distinct change in his outlook from the man John Watson had first met in Bart’s. Curiously, the consulting detective still lacked the level of self-awareness necessary to see that in the not distant past plenty of people could have said the same when referring to him. 

“We know from Marseilles that the ring’s leadership isn’t extensive. Likely a product of Moriarty’s unpredictability and self grandeur it’s a trend across his network that’s rather come in handy for us. And we know that they specialise in exporting brides.” Sherlock sneered. “How common. Can a man really be so desperate for a wife that he buys one?”

Mycroft leaned back, considering Sherlock’s question.

“Even for Moriarty, this is...dirty.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, “A vile necessity perhaps? To make up money for more interesting but less profitable ventures perhaps?”

“I would like to believe that, but the intimate moments I’ve shared with James tell me that he just wouldn’t care. Anarchy in any and every way- let the underworld rise up and consume all that is right and good and well with the world, that was his creed. You know it as well as I do.”

“I do.”

Eventually Sherlock continued, “So we can presume there’s one leader and that the ring cannot function without him. Past experience would tell us, kill the leader, kill the ring. Yes?” 

“I don’t know about that. These operations are sometimes massive, hydra like...there’s a lot of money to be made. You kill the top dog, someone else immediately steps in and takes over.”

He took a deep breath, considering their options. 

“As much as it pains me to say this, we may have to spend a bit of time considering the victims, and what is best for them. This is bigger than drugs or guns.”

“People,” Sherlock nodded, “Surely though they’ll run the moment we give them a chance?”

“Do you think? Fear is a paralytic.” 

The younger brother grunted his agreement and sunk deep into his bed, “Fine. Victim care. We’ll preemptively find an aid group and alert them to the situation. Then once we go in we pass them off on the way out.” 

“I would appreciate that greatly.”

He surveyed his cuppa, wondering silently how Sherlock had managed to acquire such a fine darjeeling in so little time.

“This is the end, isn’t it?” He looked over to his sibling, immediately analyzing his weatherworn expression.

_ When he frowns one can almost tell that we’re related _ .

“All roads lead to Russia. If we finish here, we can go home. Right?”

He’d intended for his final word to sound factual, but it came across as hopeful.

Cold and now less hopeful that they’d be able to quickly wrap things up, Sherlock suddenly didn’t feel much like communicating. His response was a needlessly terse, “Home, but not quite finished.” 

“Could we just let MI-6 handle things on the home front?” Mycroft implored, but immediately hazarded, “Unless you are referring to patching things up with Doctor Watson, in which case, I do not suggest letting British intelligence break the news that you’re alive.”

_ John.  _

Sherlock had forgotten about John. 

_ John. _

The name reverberated through him. 

_ John. _

“You know I don’t. There’s still Moran to consider.”

Mycroft could see a light switch on in Sherlock’s mind, and he immediately regretted the casual mention of his brother’s only friend.

“He’s dangerous. His file is extensive and comprehensive. I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alleyway. Or in a bright tea room, if we’re being honest.”

“Yes, because in England you avoid meeting anything that isn’t the walls of your office or your club.”

Sherlock sighed moodily. “We don’t know anything beyond the broadest idea of where to look here. We don’t know the numbers we’re up against, except in relation to Moriarty's pattern in the past, we don’t know how we’re going to deal with the perceived fallout. Perhaps it’s best to just take a few days off?” 

The old Sherlock, the Sherlock who had never jumped from a roof or deceived John, would have railed against such a suggestion. Only an hour ago he’d felt like that Sherlock again. That man would have called whomever suggested rest every name he could think of and then some. He would have gone out and worked alone rather than wait for his companion. 

_ John. John. John.  _

But this Sherlock had jumped from a building, had killed a woman, had watched others die, and had wanted them to die. And this Sherlock wanted to do nothing more than spend several days holed up in a horrid hotel room in St. Petersburg and sleep. 

Mycroft was silent as he studied his sibling, wavering. Sherlock had just directly requested rest, and the protective side of him wanted to honor the detective’s forthrightness. But the elder sibling wondered if after everything that had transpired, Sherlock could rightfully stop and restart with the vigor necessary to complete their mission.

“See how you’re feeling come morning,” Mycroft conceded. “You may feel better with sleep.” 

Without a word the dead man rolled over, still wrapped in a damp towel, and closed his eyes. 

* * *

Mycroft let Sherlock sleep well into the afternoon. Only when it became restless did he shake the detective, lifting him from his haze.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, it’s been nearly thirteen hours, it’s time to get out of bed. Do you want coffee or tea?”

He’d spent the morning working, riffling through the depths of his mind palace, making connections that’d allow them to be successful in their Petersburg endeavor. He knew the fastest and easiest way into a human trafficking ring would be to pose as a client; all that was left was sharing his decision with his brother. 

“Thirteen-” Sherlock blinked up at his brother, reassembling his mind and gathering himself. “Why did you let me sleep. We have… there are things to do, Mycroft.”

“You needed it,” the politician replied, tossing an apple onto the bed. “You were getting dramatic last night.”

“I thought I’m always dramatic,” he replied. 

Sherlock crunched through his apple and took a look at his brother, “You have a plan.”

“I do. Are you ready for it?”

“Probably not.” 

He took a sip of the proffered cup of black coffee and grimaced as it brunt his throat. “But tell me anyway.”

“You work for me now!” 

It was impossible for Mycroft to hide his delight.

Sherlock blinked twice. “I do not work for you. Not now, not ever. Not under any circumstance. How would that even help us? Nevermind. It wouldn’t. Next plan.”

“I wish to be married, and I’m in the market for a lovely young Russian beauty. You’ll be playing the role of my PA. Unless you’d rather masquerade as a lonely, wealthy businessman with zero morals. I just assumed since I’m better at Russian, and, you know, socializing, that I would act as our leading man.”

Mycroft’s reasoning resonated with Sherlock who protested anyway, “Simply because I chose not to accept socially mandated norms of behavior does not mean I’m in capable of adapting and following them.” 

The dead man stood and strutted to the bathroom’s mirror, “Ultimately, you’re correct however, no one would believe I can’t find a wife on my own.”

“Please, I could have been married ten times over by now if I gave a damn about such things,” Mycroft spat, only realising he’d played into his brother’s needling after he’d spoken.Sherlock didn’t bother to acknowledge him anyway. 

“We’re going to need to upgrade our clothing,” Mycroft pressed on. “We’ll ooze opulence, give them no reason to believe that we aren’t serious buyers.”

With sarcasm dripping from each word of his flat pronouncement Sherlock said, “Oh goodie, the Holmes brothers go shopping. I can’t wait. Could this trip get any better.” 

Mycroft felt dirty.

He felt dirty as he described his ideal woman, he felt dirty as he reviewed stacks of photographs, he felt dirty as he rejected profile after profile. For every write-up he cast aside, his contact produced three more. It was an endless chain of pretty women. The politician eventually had to unfocus his eyes as he explored the stacks, able to read far too much about the girls from just their photos.

_ She is not twenty two. _

_ She’s doing this willingly to support her family. _

_ She’s already in love with another man. _

“Enough!” Mycroft sighed, tossing a picture of a yet another busty blonde down onto the desk. 

“Enough, I can’t take it,” his Russian was clear, but he intentionally accented the words to hint at an American background. “None of these girls will do. I am a businessman of the highest caliber, I must have a wife worthy of my assets. Unless you can do better than this, we are through.”

He gestured towards Sherlock, who stood by the door mobile already in hand to call for a car.

Their contact, reading the pair’s body language and afraid of losing a sale, hurriedly insisted they stay.

“Yes, yes, of course! We have more- lots more; sir, I assure you, we are the finest in the business, and we can certainly accommodate you. I’d be happy to assist you, or perhaps we could set up a meeting with one of my associates, he could bring women for you to meet; it will cost more, but it will be a small price to pay for love. The ladies will stun you, their radiance can only be properly appreciated in person. You will not be disappointed.”

Mycroft stared across the desk until the man shifted uncomfortably.

“Yes. That will do.”

* * *

Aware that their new business ‘associate’ watched from behind the window of his office, Sherlock dutifully opened the car door for Mycroft and slid in right after the man. He’d taken a page from Anthea’s book and spent the meeting with his head down and fingers constantly moving across the screen. Though in practice he wasn’t doing anything more than expanding his Russian, he certainly looked the picture of a man paid well enough to ignore the less than legal activities his employer engaged in. 

He managed to keep the act up for the entire ride back to their new hotel, a typically Russian monstrosity built of gild and corrupt money. But once locked away in their room he let loose a tirade against Russians, the fools they’d just had to interact with, and of course, Mycroft. 

“This is preposterous. Anyone should be able to tell you’re not American. I don’t care how you sound you simply don’t look it. You’re not fat enough, bourgeois enough, or greedy enough. You’re far too refined and naturally powerful. They’re a load of idiots and they deserve everything about to come their way.” 

The rant continued as he divested himself of the hateful black tie and a pair of silver cufflinks, “How anyone could believe a man of my intelligence, of my obvious class could- would- ever denigrate myself to the role of a trumped up servant! I refuse to continue in this vein. I will not stand by and simply stand!”

“Sherlock, please, their stupidity is the only reason our endeavor will be successful. I need you to be patient, it’s too late to restrategise. The game is underway. I don’t like this any more than you do,” Mycroft sighed as he pushed his way through the bathroom door, hoping he could wash away his feelings of disgust. 

“Oh yes, it must be so difficult to sit there and look at attractive women.” Sherlock continued to undress, simply raising his voice so Mycroft could continue to hear, “And don’t tell me you’re gay, a pretty face is a pretty face. All you’ve got to do is act straight. I have to completely suppress my entire sense of self in order to act like an assistant.”

“I have to repress my complete disdain for the state of the human race,” Mycroft replied, closing the door. Through the wood came a muffled, “I don’t care what you do to make this palatable, figure something out.”

* * *

They repeated the first meeting two other times, Mycroft growing more demanding and particular at each. Sherlock managed to keep his cool largely by beginning to play around in the background of each meeting. At first he contented himself with the occasional judgmental glance or short sigh but by the end of their third meeting he was pushing himself, trying to see just what he could do before Mycroft reprimanded him. Lingering touches and anticipating his “employers” needs appeared to be as far as he could get. 

Just before what Mycroft hoped would be their final meeting they found themselves waiting in a conference room. After a lengthy, dramatic sigh from Sherlock, Mycroft his sibling’s shin.

“Stop. I know what you’re doing, and it’s not funny.”

Sherlock arranged his face to look as offended as possible and said in a camp voice, “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Bordelon. If I’ve done anything to offend- It’s your life and if you want to throw it away on some blonde Russian who--”

A large Russian man entered the room cutting off the rest of his performance.

Glancing at the man, Sherlock idly thought that he looked just like Mycroft when the older Holmes commanded a room of English toffs at MI5. 

Mycroft shifted to greet their interloper, and immediately faltered. There were words he’d planned on saying, but they were gone. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears as he tried to reason where he’d miscalculated.

_ This isn’t your fault. There’s no way you’d have ever known.  _

The two stared at one another, the mutual recognition on their faces immediately alerting Sherlock that something had gone wrong.

The Russian’s hand moved to his side, producing a two-way radio, which he brought to his lips.

“Volkov to security. We have a breach.” 

He smiled and closed the door,  placing himself between the men and their exit.

“Mycroft Holmes. This is truly unexpected.”

Hearing his brother’s name aloud was confirmation Sherlock didn’t need to know what exactly had gone wrong. Dropping the act of jilted lover immediately, he spoke up to give his brother time to recover. 

“Oh you two know each other already? I feel so left out. I’ll have to make up for lost time, hmm?”

He strode forward with his hand out to shake. When the Russian foolishly reacted on instinct and reached out, Sherlock grabbed him twisted producing a long, thin knife from the lining of his suit coat.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said next to the Russian’s ear, “former consulting detective, current dead man. I’m so pleased to meet you. Care to take a walk?”

Mycroft inhaled deeply as Sherlock dropped his identity freely. Still reeling from his own outing, he scanned the room, counting the cameras and looking for additional exits. 

“Sherlock, keep the theatrics to a minimum, we need to leave,” Mycroft insisted, shifting beside his brother to hold the businessman in place. Volkov struggled a bit, but he remained calm, speaking in a level tone.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, my team will be here momentarily.”

“Then you’ll just have to call them off.” 

Sherlock’s voice was light and he gave no indication that their predicament bothered him. If Sally Donovan could have seen him she would have felt more vindicated than even she knew was possible. Other than the tightly held knife he pressed with into the Russian’s neck, his posture was easy and his eye both sparkled with delight or looked dull depending on the moment. 

So it wasn’t surprising that Volkov slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the radio, “Hold. Volkvo speaking. Hold.” 

The radio crackled and though Sherlock couldn’t understand the Russian that faded in and out he was able to piece together the hostage’s response, “Possible false alarm. Hold momentarily.” 

Mycroft would have been disappointed, if the action hadn’t worked in their favor.

_ Why do none of these men have any backbone? I could overthrow the earth if I saw fit. _

“Peotyr, what business does the former UN ambassador for Russia have selling women on the black market?” Mycroft questioned as he began looking for something to bind their captive’s wrists.

“What business does a British civil servant have purchasing women on the black market?” Volkov replied coolly, to which Mycroft sneered. 

“As if I’d ever sink so low-”

“You look pretty low to me-”

“Enough,” Sherlock interrupted, mildly annoyed now. “Mycroft the next time you’re annoyed that my “hobby” gets in the way of your ruling the world I’m going to remind you of this moment.”

"Peotyr is it?” the consulting detective’s voice snapped back to its previous false cheer, “A pleasure to meet you. Now as I like to get to know all of my new friends, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself, starting with the most efficient way for us to leave the building so that you can return to what is, I can only assume, an incredibly full schedule of selling human flesh.”

Twisting a bit to see his captor, Volkvo wished he hadn’t. The utter lack of emotion on the Englishman’s face unsettled him. Even Sherlock’s eyes seemed to have a glassy and unfocused sheen. And it wasn’t a mask; Sherlock Holmes, the English virgin, the man that Jim Moriarty had considered an equal was everything the Russian had heard him to be. Cold, calculated, motivated by logic, Holmes lacked both greed as well any sort of moral compass. Apparently, he lacked sanity as well now. He might not want to die, as proved by the knife kissing the skin of Peotyr’s neck. If he did happen to die though, Volkvo got the sense he wouldn’t be much bothered by it. Annoyed perhaps at his failure, disappointed that a Russian politician had bested him, but not upset. 

The Russian turned again, hissing as the action sliced a thin line through the skin of his neck. He regarded the brother he knew. Mycroft Holmes was a formidable opponent on the international stage. If rumours were to be believed (and these sorts of rumours were) then the “minor bureaucrat” did far more than advise national leaders; he played them, owned them, and molded them to his will. And all without their knowledge. Mycroft Holmes was the smartest, most powerful man in the world. But Mycroft would want to protect his reputation. 

_ And that’s how I stay alive. _

Sherlock pushed the knife into the cut, deepening it, and Volkvo realised he’d taken too long to answer. Sherlock was calling the shots now, not Mycroft, and the Russian needed to obey if he wanted to live. Confident that Mycroft’s political sensibilities would keep him alive, Peotyr began, “The way you came. Down the stairs and out the door. No tricks, no violence.”

“And your other friends?”

“Won’t come unless they’re called.”

“But they can see us?”

Volkvo couldn’t help the huffy, “Of course.”

Sherlock smiled brightly as a teacher would to a pupil, “Excellent and easy. Brother dear,” his voice sounded like syrup, “Do you need anything from these offices while we’re here?”

“I- we- no,” Mycroft started, shaking his head. 

_ Don’t panic, panic and you’re dead. _

The mere fact that he needed to tell himself that meant that things were dreadfully wrong. 

_ This is my life’s work on the line. I wasn’t supposed to be recognised. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I’m on every security camera. This couldn’t be worse. _

But of course, it could- and it was. Sherlock had taken control of the situation as only his brazen brother could, dramatically deducing and threatening all at once. 

“We have to go,” was all Mycroft could weakly manage, insecurity creeping into his voice. “We have to leave now, Sherlock.” 

Normally his brother’s name was used as a warning, but this time it was a plea- an attempt to appeal to whatever filial bond they’d fostered throughout their tumultuous journey. 

“Correct as always, brother mine,” Sherlock intoned with a smile, “But here is where we run into a few, small, problems.” He turned to his captive, “You see Mycroft’s thoughts are correct, his cover is blown. We need to leave now but- and here I’m sure you can see our problem- I can’t quite leave yet as I do have one, small demand.” 

His face did something complicated, as if Sherlock was attempting to look comforting, but hadn’t mastered the emotion yet. It was a look that Mycroft would recognize from whenever the younger Holmes had a new nanny, but to Volkvo the expression provoked a chill. The man holding him hostage was not fully stable.

“So our plan- Mycroft, go. I rather think it’s time that you checked in on Mummy anyway. I’ll wrap a few things up here and then maybe some more somewhere else and then I promise to be a good boy and run home too.” 

_ Don’t fight me Mycroft Holmes, just leave, let me clean up. I’ve got the hang of it now.  _

“I’m not leaving you,” Mycroft shook his head, looking around the room again. His movements were becoming obviously skittish, like a spooked animal in a cage. 

“We leave together or we don’t leave at all.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically, “Rule number one of hostage training, don’t fight in front of the captive. Rule number two of hostage training, don’t fight the man with the gun. I said go.”

“Sherlock, no-” 

_ You haven’t come this far to panic when it matters. You are the rock and the voice of reason.  _

The elder Holmes gritted his teeth and shook his head, the lump in his throat and the burn in his eyes furthering his frustration.

“No.”

But there was no other way; the politician’s cover was blown, he’d compromised both their safety and security, and if he didn’t give up control he’d risk losing everything. 

He stared towards his brother. They’d come this far together, to walk out now, to abandon everything- what if something went wrong? What if Sherlock couldn’t get out? 

His brother gazed back at him with the self-assured confidence of a man who was ready to raze hell. 

_ You have to trust him.  _

“I will meet up with you later.” 

Mycroft tore his eyes away from his sibling and marched towards the door. He never looked back, biting back worry, responsibility, and guilt. His pace quickened, until he was running, running, choking on his own breath, pressing on and on. His new goal was reaching the safety of British Embassy. 

_ And then what? You can’t leave without Sherlock. _

His brother wouldn’t stop here; he’d insist on continuing. Where next? Istanbul, Bucharest, Kosovo- he’d keep moving on until he’d filled whatever void James Moriarty had carved into his chest.

_ You can’t follow him forever.  _

Returning home alone was simply never an option that Mycroft had considered.

* * *

Hearing Mycroft’s tred fade as he exited the building and glancing out the window to confirm, Sherlock turned another of his not-quite-right smiles onto the Russian.

“Thank you.”

Volkvo stuttered, “For what?”

“Well look at him. He’s running and he never runs. I’m glad to see him exercising.” 

Sherlock watched his brother for another second or two before abruptly swinging forward and moving the knife off of Volkvo’s throat and pushing it into his waist, “But you promised to show me the security room and I do hate to waste the time of a busy man. So let's not! Lead the way!”

The two men exited to find a collection of guards starting to assemble, “Oh, comrades excellent, I love company.” 

He dropped the knife and pulled a gun out of his the small of his back. Setting the muzzle flat against his captives head he said, “Let’s all make the trip upstairs together, shall we? And you can lead, we’ll just follow right along behind.” 

Together the small party moved forward, Sherlock and Volkvo at the rear. 

“This is everyone in the building?”

The Russian jerked his head and hissed as the cut on his neck pulled and burned.

In a singsong voice Sherlock continued, “Good then. Now if you could all do my just a small favour and stand facing the wall. Ah, ah-” he reached out and pistol whipped one man who made to reach down, “Hands on your head. Thank you. Now I’ve killed several people in the last few months, but I really have no desire to keep the trend going so if you all are good and do as I say I’ve no problem walking away and letting you live.” 

Directing Volkvo to to bring up all of the footage that showed Mycroft on camera, Sherlock took over and wiped it from the computer. “Don’t worry I haven’t touched any of your other records. You can check if you like.”

The Russian checked their systems and found that, indeed, the dead man hadn’t deleted any other information. He looked up, his confusion clear. 

Sherlock gave him a crazed and indulgent smile, “Unlike my humanitarian brother, I couldn’t give two shits about those women.” 

He laughed, “As long as there have been men in power there’s been a demand for women without. Who am I to interrupt such a tradition. All I care about is that my brother’s career isn’t over and that I don’t get caught.”

He glanced around, “Which means it’s time for me to take my leave. It’s been a pleasure, really. Step over to the wall, please.”

Haltingly Volkvo did as directed. Utterly convinced that Sherlock was crazy, the Russian didn’t want to set him off. Yet from everything he’d said and done so far it seemed Holmes actually did mean to simply walk away without firing his gun.

“Now I’m going to stand on the other side of the door and you’re going to arm this room- you can arm it, correct? I’ve seen signs of a lockdown procedure.”

The trafficker nodded.

“Good. I’m going to stand on the other side of the door and you’re going to lock this room down. And it’s going to stay locked down for an hour at which point you may lift your security and go on with your lives.” 

Turning to address the men against the walls he continued, “And maybe I’ll sit around outside the door for a bit just to make sure you don’t try to get out before the hour’s up.I haven’t decided yet.”

Backing out and standing directly in front of the door he waited until he could hear it close and its lock engage before quickly moving downstairs. On his way he jumped up and hung on every exposed gas line he came across, pulling them loose and flooding the building. At the front door he dithered for only a moment before pulling it shut. It was the work of a moment to break a window, catch his suit coat on fire, and throw it inside. 

Sherlock ran down the block and around the corner to take shelter against a neighbouring building. He’d barely ducked down before the force of the explosion rumbled the ground, deafening his ears, and surrounding him with a burning, gritty heat. Allowing himself only a minute to admire his work, he got up and ran. 

* * *

Mycroft plowed through the doors of the British Embassy, wheezing even as he demanded the attention of the front desk clerk. His entrance startled several of the people in the lobby, and any hope at discretion was lost. 

“I need an immediate escort out of the country,” the politician breathed, leaning against the counter for support. His legs throbbed as lactic burn began to fade into general weakness, and he did his best to compose himself.

“My name is Mycroft Holmes, I am a member of Her Royal Highness’ Civil Service, and it is of utmost importance that I receive a prompt extraction.” 

The woman stared at him, mouthing the air, unsure whether to focus on his words, his appearance, or his demeanor.

Exasperated, Mycroft fumbled with a pouch taped to his check and slapped it on the counter. From inside he pulled out his ID, and spat, “Me. Helicopter. Now.”

A fraction of a second later, the entire building shook, and the air was overwhelmed with noise. Mycroft pitched forward into the desk, the wind forced from his chest. Something had exploded, and as he processed and gathered his thoughts, he was sickeningly aware that Sherlock was probably the cause.

* * *

Reaching the hotel Sherlock entered through a tradesman’s entrance in the back. Ducking into an employee bathroom he did his best to wipe the worst of the debris from his face and clothing. Stealing a waiter’s coat on the way out he straightened his appearance just enough so that on the black and white security cameras he wouldn’t look out of place. He felt alive and all powerful as lingering adrenaline shot through him, propelling him down the endless halls of the hotel and into his room. On the way he found a waiting food cart and took it upon himself to deliver the meal to the relative safety to his room. 

Silently he locked and chained the door, left the cart next to the bed, stripped off his clothes, and got into the shower. After a perfunctory wash his energy had faded and he fell naked into bed and slept. He would think tomorrow. 

* * *

Fourteen hours later the dead man woke and ravenously plowed his way through the cold potatoes and steak on the cart he’s stolen. Glancing once around the empty suite he let his body fall back onto the mattress with a solid thunk. No Mycroft, yet a room full of Mycroft’s possessions. No Mycroft, no money. No Mycroft, no plan. 

_ Excellent, just like in Spain.  _

For a moment he enjoyed the feeling of freedom he’d so long associated with his brother’s absence. But soon a devastating realisation broke over him, he missed the politician’s presence. Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed noiselessly a few times before he shut it firmly, no point in talking without someone to listen. 

_ Right time to plan, what do I know?  _

Not many more eliminations necessary, he’d managed---- he and Mycroft had managed to cut the head off each of the syndicates for which they’d found evidence. Realistically, that left him with Moran, Moriarity’s second in command, and Moran’s second Adair. Maybe a third man too if his luck continued as it had so far.

Scraps of information floated unanchored around his mind palace and Sherlock knew he needed to sift through them for leads before making a plan. 

_ How long did Mycroft book this room for?  _

_ Two days? Three? _

No matter; Sherlock could do what he needed in a day and a half, perhaps a bit longer as he’d just eaten. Resettling into the mattress he crossed his ankles and rested his fingertips under his nose, shifting his weight around a few times until he felt comfortable. 

Time to think. 


	9. Chapter 9

It took thirty two hours to process everything he needed inside his mind palace. He regretted eating the heavy Russian food nearly immediately and its weight had added four or five hours to his work. 

In London, Moran was now sure to know that the someone was targeting the remainder of the web. If Sherlock got lucky, Mycroft’s return, which should have happened by now, would lead him to assume that the elder Holmes out for revenge had seen to its destruction. The idea that Mycroft felt enough emotion to go after the leftovers of Moriarty's network would surprise Moran. That would buy Sherlock enough time to flee Russia and get back on the trail of his remaining targets. 

_ Money and power, that’s all that’s left.  _

_ Adair will fold beautifully; politicians never have a backbone. Lords have even less.  _

_ Moran will take a bit more doing.  _

But Mycroft’s arrival would also force both men into defensive positions; they’d start checking their trails and covering their tracks. They might even temporarily half operations. 

So the dead man would need to exercise caution as he returned home, he couldn’t risk tipping off even the lowest operative that he was alive. 

_ Perhaps I should call Mycroft in to help get me into the country? No, better to get closer to home first. I’ll make contact once I reach France. NOT Marseilles. _

Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock’s hands flew in front of his face at the thought of the southern city, physically trying to stop the thoughts from materialising. 

_ -Normandy. Mycroft will appreciate the historical sentiment.  _

Then once in London he could reevaluate with whatever intelligence his brother had gathered and make his final move. 

_ Time to blow West.  _

* * *

For all his planning on what to do when he reached London, Sherlock had very little plan on how to actually get there. Low on cash he could make it to probably Kyvi before he’d need to turn a pocket or two. He knew that without Mycroft it would be too dangerous to try and gamble. 

Packing up his and Mycroft’s impressive wardrobes he sold them on the street and in a few back-alley shops to those who happily bought without questions. Most of the money the two brothers had accumulated had disappeared with Mycroft so the pittance he raised from their belongings was a welcome addition to the little they’d stashed in the room. Sherlock may not need much, but travel cost real money, and thanks to bloody inconvenient increased terrorism across Eastern Europe the consulting detective could no longer count on slipping unseen onto trains or hitching rides across borders. 

Back in his dirty and travel worn clothing he decamped from the hotel in the early hours of the morning, wandering the streets until he could feasibly head to a train station and begin his journey home. 


	10. Chapter 10

Under any other circumstances, Mycroft would have been overwhelmingly pleased to find himself back in London. Yet as he watched raindrops pelt the leaded windows of his Whitehall office, he felt listless, insecure, ineffectual. The water rolled and connected into rivulets, wayward droplets eventually joining a continuous stream; order from chaos, that was what he craved, and yet it eluded him.

Neglected, bitter, and untouched, his tea sat cold on the corner of his desk, along with an unopened pile of mail. 

“Mr. Holmes?” 

He opened his mouth to shoo the unannounced visitor out, but was surprised to find that the intrusion was a welcome one. Patricia Hargreaves, Corporate Strategy Officer for the Chief Executive of the Defence Science and Technology Laboratory of the Ministry of Defence, was one of the few people Mycroft genuinely respected. She was reliable and trustworthy, always in control. 

“Can I help you, Patricia?” Mycroft coolly opened, giving little indication as to his mood or thoughts.

“Sir, you asked MI-6 for hourly status updates. I am here to deliver them personally,” the brunette responded, nearly as unreadable as the elder Holmes. 

“And?”   

“Nothing yet, sir.”

Mycroft turned back to the window.

“No. Obviously not. If he were dead you’d have found him by now, and if he’s alive you won’t find him at all.”

Patricia was silent for a moment, watching Mycroft, silhouetted by the dreary gray light of the window. The civil servant stood with unshakably rigid posture, but there was a weariness to his voice that she’d never noticed before.

“Sir…” she began patiently, “We have our very best agents on the case, they’ll find your brother, and he’ll come straight home, safely and securely.”

“No,” Mycroft turned, his voice imbued with a new aggressiveness, “No, your best men are not on the case, I’m the best we’ve got- it takes a Holmes to find a Holmes, I should be out there looking for him, not here doing busywork.”

“You’re not doing busywork-”

“Oh? Am I not?” Mycroft’s belly heaved as a manic laugh burst from him. Reaching for his pile of mail, he began analyzing the contents of the unopened letters, tossing them aside as he deemed them unworthy of his attention.

“Tax reform, budget analysis, immigration, immigration, EU junk mail, letter from the Prince’s Trust... Oh, what’s this? Could it be? An invitation to a formal tea for the wife of the Prime Minister of Japan??!” Mycroft scattered the remaining stack of letters with a flourish of his arm, paper falling like snow around the iceman. His glare was as cold and unforgiving as ever. 

“I’m doing nothing of use here.”

“Mycroft,” Patricia insisted, using the bureaucrat’s first name in a rare breach of formality. “You’ve only just returned, we need you here. Moriarty still has connections in London, what about Moran and Adair?”

“You know as well as I do that there’s been radio silence on both accounts,” Mycroft scowled, slumping down into his desk chair. “They’re lying low, they’re not stupid. They need to be smoked out, which is exactly why we need Sherlock _._ ”

“We’ll get Sherlock,” Patricia insisted. “Give my team time. The moment we close in on him you’ll know. For now, you know as well as I do that you’re most useful here.”

Steepling his fingers under his chin, Mycroft had begun retreating into his mind palace, his features stoney. The only thing he hated more than being told what to do was when other people were right. Displeased, but momentarily convinced, he offered, “They have three weeks,” before he slipped deep into the depths of his mind.


	11. Chapter 11

As predicted, he easily reached Kyvi. Once in the city Sherlock kept his head covered and slept in doorways and parks rather than risk someone finding him in a hotel or hostel bed. The cold and often wet concrete was hardly pleasant, but now alone the consulting detective couldn’t afford a single misstep. For two full days he scoured the city before finding a freight train headed to Odessa. His preferred route West would have veered to go slightly north into Poland, but Sherlock didn’t have any contacts to ask for money, intelligence, or advice. Forced to take what he could find, the dead man hid himself in one of the middle cars of the old and rusted train, huddling for warmth and alert to anyone checking the cars during the six hour journey. 

Sore and numb Sherlock’s flight from the slowly stopping train looked at best ungainly. Several times he stumbled on non-existent bumps and sooner than he wanted his legs failed him. Sherlock crumpled under a pile of unused crates, his chest heaving, body shaking, and tears flowing freely from his eyes. 

He wanted to get out of the train yard, but unable to move he succumbed to sleep, the only bodily necessity he could give himself. 

* * *

Waking around noon, he stood on shaky legs and tried to remember when last he’d eaten. 

_ Full meal? Russia. Hotel.  _

_ Snack? On the road to Kyvi. No-no-no in Kyvi you stole from that cafe the second evening.  _

_ Conclusion- food necessary.  _

Thankfully it took less than five hours to find both a kind hearted woman who pitied a strange homeless mute and another cargo train leaving that night for an overnight journey to Belgrade. Sherlock stole the woman’s winter coat and her husband’s boots before fleeing to catch his next ride west. 

* * *

The journey dragged on over hours and Sherlock spent most of it focused on cutting off his feelings; he didn’t know what he was going into, he had no plan to get out, hunger pains continually overrode his thoughts, and most appalling of all, he missed the feeling of Mycroft  by his side. 

_ No. Stop. No.  _

_ You don’t need him. You don’t need ANYTHING.  _

_ You are Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and dead man living. You are the only one in the world.  _

_ Alone is fine; easier even. Mycroft would never spent time in this sort of filth. _

_ I bet I’d be warm if we were together… _

_ Stop.  _

His brain moved in circles until it gave up and he dropped off the sleep. 

* * *

Belgrade provided him with no more support than Odessa or Kyvi. He wandered the city stealing food and trying to find further passage either north or west. After a week with no leads Sherlock found a church that provided services to the homeless and stayed long enough to bathe, eat a warm meal, and take a nap. 

With a firmer grasp on reality, he returned to the streets with no more of a plan, but the beginnings of an idea. He had plenty of knowledge he was willing to part with for a price. It took him less than an hour to find a dealer and convince the man to send him higher up the chain.

Waltzing in and deducing weak links in their operation and tipping them off to a likely police raid, it took less than a day to throw the city’s drug market into chaos. Another twenty-four hours and most of Belgrade’s underworld knew of the man divulging secrets never shared and enemies never declared. Word spread among the streets; all he wanted was a way out. He’d help anyone, do nearly anything, as long as it got him safe passage to France. 

Naturally, such rumours also caught the attention of Serbian military and police forces. Sherlock had they would notice, but he trusted himself to outsmart authorities. Suspicious officials, however, could offer to the city’s criminals something Sherlock could not, a blind eye to all criminal activity to anyone that would give the meddling foreigner over to them. 

* * *

Branches tore at his face and his hands, slipping past his clothes to nick the skin on his neck and ankles. Tired, exhausted, and unable to focus clearly he ran. He ran without a plan, without a map, without any care or attempt to deduce where he was headed. He ran knowing they were behind him. He could hear their voices shouting, their dogs barking, and--

_ Fuck. You’re done. _

\--their helicopters. 

He put up a mediocre fight. No need to let them know just how empty he felt. Sherlock lashed out at the men as they bound him and continued struggling as they carried him into their cars. 

On the floor of a military jeep with the handcuffs biting into his wrists all he could think was that he felt warmer now than he had since the homeless shelter. 

* * *

Slamming his fists down onto the table, Mycroft rose from his chair, his shoulders squared like a cat about to pounce.

“What do you mean, someone else got to him first?” He snarled, prowling towards Patricia. “For fuck’s sake, you had ONE job- “

Patricia met him with an unwavering stare.

“Mister Holmes, there is nothing we can do besides move forward. We were on his trail, but you know perfectly well that freely moving through Serbia without drawing attention to oneself is not easy.”

“He’s in SERBIA?!” Mycroft roared. “He’s being held by the Serbian military? Is that correct?!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get me on the next flight to Kosovo.”

“Sir-”

“DO IT!”


	12. Chapter 12

His trapeze muscles screamed and his gut burned. Sherlock could accurately place and describe two dozen scrapes, cuts, and bruises on his back and torso. His wrists, bloodied from the cuffs, now had bits of rope fiber embedded in the welts. 

After warming up on the floor of the jeep, Sherlock had frozen in a holding cell for days. Lethargic and starving, he’d shut off his brain, retreated to his mind palace, and rested his body as best he could. When they’d come for him he’d accepted their water and bread, but refused to speak. He didn’t deny understanding them, but neither did he betray any sign of cooperation. Pretty quickly the interrogation table had disappeared, replaced by whips and chains. 

While a large Serb beat him Sherlock deduced his secrets and plotted how best to steal his key. Vaguely, he saw a third man enter the room, but when he only sat in the corner, hat pulled down over his face and coat collar up around his neck, the consulting detective dismissed him; one Serb at a time. 

His captor leaned down and whispered in Serbian, “You came here for a reason. Who sent you. Just tell us everything and you can sleep. Remember sleep? Huh? ... What?”

When Sherlock whispered his reply the man in the chair finally looked up, “Well? What did he say?”

Slowly the first man stood, “He said that I used to work in the Navy... where I had an unhappy love affair. That the electricity isn't working in my bathroom... and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbor. The coffin maker. And if I go home now I'll catch them at it. I knew it! I knew there was something going on!” 

He rushed from the room without a second’s pause. 

Sherlock found he couldn’t gloat at his victory though as he was far too furious at the still seated man. 

_ That fucking freckled, lily-arsed, whiny slut.  _

_ I’m going to murder him.  _

_ As soon as he gets me back to London. _

The man spoke, “So, my friend. Now it's just you and me. You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.” 

Standing he switched to English and stood, bending down to get in Sherlock’s face. He lowered his voice to whisper, “Now listen to me, there's an underground terrorist network active in London, and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over. Brother dear. Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

They moved swiftly and silently through the night, pausing only to make sure the way was clear and that they were safe to move on. Sherlock’s wounds bled and his bruises ached so Mycroft led them on to their extraction point. He coaxed Sherlock on with the occasional demanding hand gesture or glare. Finally the woods opened up into a clearing where a small convoy of heavily-armed men were huddled around several jeeps. One command from the elder Holmes and they were on their feet, preparing to return home.

With a shove to Sherlock’s shoulder, Mycroft directed them both towards the vehicle.

“Get in.”

Stumbling and grunting with pain, Sherlock did as he was told, not a word of complaint, not a single witty comment. He sat silent, comatose on the way to the plane. Halfway through the journey the now actually, nearly dead man leaned against the window unable to keep himself upright any longer. 

They both kept quiet until they were sequestered away in the cabin of their plane, at which point Mycroft immediately set about fetching towels from the loo.

“You’re filthy,” he grunted, nose turned up in disgust as he passed the cloth to his brother.

“Mmm,” agreed Sherlock faintly. 

He didn’t attempt to do anything with the towels. He could barely close his fingers around their warmth. Sherlock felt drained, utterly exhausted, and spent.  He could feel pain from every one of his injuries and even knowing Mycroft could read his pain and fatigue the younger Holmes found he couldn’t be arsed to cover them. He wanted to sleep, safely, for hours; to bathe, safely, and then do both again. As his stomach clenched and new pain rippled through is abdomen he added eating to his wish list. 

“Will you allow me to look at your back?” the bureaucrat questioned, standing over Sherlock, his tone still biting. Anger was the emotion at the forefront of his mind, and he was using it as a barrier for the other, softer sensitivities that threatened to overtake him as he analyzed his brother’s state. 

Sherlock listlessly stripped the remains of his shirt from his body, hissing as the rough polyester fibers stuck to the dried blood around his wounds. He half-fell sideways to lie on his chest across the plane bench.

“Easy, easy,” Mycroft coaxed, his hands jutting out to steady his brother and bring him down gently. His voice had dropped low with concern as his brother revealed his injuries. 

“Will you let me clean them?”  

“Yes,” Sherlock said carefully. His eyes had closed and his body slumped further downwards. 

“When was your last tetanus shot?” Mycroft questioned as he walked towards the flight deck, intent on retrieving a first aid kit from the cabin crew.

For all that his voice came out so weak that the engine’s nearly drowned it out, a trace of the old Sherlock shone briefly in his reply, “When was the last time you made me get one?”

Scowling, Mycroft returned to his brother’s side, clutching a box of bandages and ointments. 

“Right. You’re getting a booster the moment we’re on English soil.”

Quiet again Sherlock nodded slightly, complacent. 

Kneeling down, Mycroft opened up the kit’s bottle of distilled water and set about irrigating the gashes on Sherlock’s back. He was quiet as he worked, paying little regard to the plane’s upholstery as he cleaned the cuts to the best of his ability. The gesture was a silent apology, a private, personal acknowledgement that he’d arrived too late to be of any real consequence to his brother’s well being. He’d seen the younger man swipe the guard’s keys, watched as he verbally disarmed and dismissed his abuser; Sherlock would have made it out even if Mycroft hadn’t been there. 

“Really though-  _ Serbia _ ?” Mycroft attempted to heckle as he pushed the cloth against a particularly nasty looking cut. “Bit off the beaten path, I’d almost think you were trying to  _ avoid _ me.”

“Normandy-” bit out Sherlock his jaw locked. After a moment he forced it open again, forced more words to come out, “I planned to contact you once I had made it to Normandy. I got close.”

“Did you really have to blow that building up, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed exasperatedly, but there was a twinge of upset to his voice, hinting at the elder sibling’s real point-  _ I was afraid you were dead. _

“He knew who you were. Maybe they wouldn’t have murdered us in our beds that night. Maybe. He wouldn’t have allowed you to keep working though. He needed to away. Boom.”

He had another moment of characteristic curiosity, “Could you hear it from wherever you were?”

“Sherlock. I left the scene on foot.  _ On foot.  _ And you blew up a building. _ A building.  _ How far do you think I was able to get in fifteen minutes??”

To save his shoulders from the pain of more movement, he verbally shrugged, “Eh, at least a quarter mile?”

“You’d still hear an explosion of that magnitude, don’t be daft,” Mycroft grunted. 

“So sorry I didn’t wait longer,” replied Sherlock with a groan. He squeezed his eyes shut as if it’d help block out the pain. 

“Relax, that’s the worst one. It’s practically over,” Mycroft patted Sherlock’s hip before shifting back to sit on the floor. It was an odd scene, vaguely reminiscent of what might have occurred between the boys in their youth; Mycroft on the floor, gazing up as Sherlock loafed about, both trying to determine their next step, teetering between fighting and plotting.

“I...feel like I should say something.” Mycroft finally muttered.

Sherlock’s words came out haltingly, “You had to leave, we both couldn’t have fled across Eastern Europe and been captured by Serbs. Also, you would never have lasted on the trains.”

The politician nodded, focusing on cleaning the grime from his hands. 

“Was it worth it, in the end?” 

‘Not yet,” he gathered his thoughts as the pain started to recede, “Adair and Moran first, then it’ll be worth it.”

“...Yes. About that…”

Mycroft steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

“They’re going to be the most difficult. They’ve been hiding in plain sight, and they’ll expect it. Adair may fold quickly, but Moran will be a problem. At the moment, I have a slightly more pressing issue that I’d prefer we dealt with…”

Abruptly Sherlock shot up. The world spun and his hands shot out, fists balled, to steady himself.

“More pressing? We’ve just spent eight months scouring Europe to pick off Moriarty’s men. And now, when there are only two left, you have something more pressing? Can’t you get your cock sucked later?”

“Priorities, Sherlock, we can play cat-and-mouse with Moran later. There’s an impending terrorist attack, a plot against high-profile individuals, London needs you.”

The injured man’s jaw clicked with the how tightly he ground his teeth together. It hurt him immensely to speak and went against his body’s instincts to stay still, but he was already using energy he didn’t have just to stay conscious. 

“What are the chances of a coincidence, Mycroft? They must be linked. After all, what do you say about coincidences?” Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer, “The universe is rarely so lazy, that’s what you say.” 

“Yes, fine. It’s plausible,” Mycroft huffed. “Consider that motivation for establishing what is going to happen, and when.”

“Do I get John?”

Mycroft opened and closed his mouth. He knew the topic of Doctor Watson would inevitably surface, but he was ill prepared as to how to address the emotions he knew were attached to it.

“When you choose to reestablish your connection with Doctor Watson is none of my business, Sherlock.”

The younger brother nodded and considered such freedom. Nodding stiffly he lowered himself down again, letting his head fall heavily against the bench. 

“How are you?” 

The question sounded odd as he asked it, the Holmes family never asked about one another, but he found himself genuinely invested in whatever the answer would be. 

“I’m-” Mycroft started before shaking his head. “Don’t pretend like we’re now concerned about one another just because we spent a few months abroad together. I’m embarrassed for you right now. We don’t do this.”

The comment clearly affected the consulting detective who visibly shrank into himself even as he muttered, “You’re sleep deprived and you’ve gained one and a half stone, so there’s extra stress at work. This incident yes, but also you’ve been worried about my safety. You lost me at some point then. Well your minions lost me, you would never have been so careless.”

Clenching and unclenching his fists, all Mycroft could do was counter with a grumble,

“One and a quarter stone.”

“One and a quarter,” conceded Sherlock. “Will you answer my question now?”

Mycroft shrugged.

“My doctor says if my blood pressure doesn’t drop I could be dead within the year. I told him everything should be resolved by then and I’d take my chances. He didn’t appreciate that very much.”

_ If you die on me I’ll never forgive you,  _ thought Sherlock.

Resettling, he shifted until finding a position that hurt his body least and asked, “How much longer until we land?”

“We still have an hour. I’ll dim the lights if you’d like to just rest. I have more pillows if you need them.”

“Don’t bother, this is already the nicest place I’ve seen in the last month.” 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end. Thank you so much to everyone who's read, left Kudos, and written comments. They've all meant so much to us!

Off the plane, on the ground, and in his coat Sherlock felt himself again, despite the eight month absence and still fresh cuts and bruises. On the street he used the time before John’s dinner reservation to visit of few of his favourite hidey-holes. To his satisfaction all five looked unchanged.

 

* * *

[SMS to M. Holmes] Thank you for your ‘update’ on J.W. It was, as I should have known, fucking useless. 

[SMS to S. Holmes] Went that well, did it?

[SMS to S. Holmes] Do you need a car home?

[SMS to M. Holmes] I need some ice. Do I have a home?

[SMS to S. Holmes] You know Mrs. Hudson will welcome you back with open arms. Just be tactful about your reintroduction.

[SMS to S. Holmes] If you’re really stuck you can stay with me.

* * *

[SMS to M. Holmes] Tact isn’t my strong suit. On the up side she didn’t actually strike me. 

[SMS to S. Holmes] Are you covered for the night?

[SMS to M. Holmes] I am. Thank you.

[SMS to M. Holmes] If you ever acknowledge I said that I will actually kill myself. 

[SMS to S. Holmes] And we can go through all this angst again. Splendid.

[SMS to S. Holmes] Get some rest.

* * *

Breezing into his brother’s office with an army doctor in tow, it was as if no time had passed.

Sherlock announced, “It’s the trains.”

“Shut  _ UP _ ,” Mycroft hissed, covering up the receiver of his phone, his scowl cutting a masterpiece across his brow. Focusing back on his phone call he removed his hand, and prompted, “Go ahead.”

Rolling his eyes and huffing for John’s benefit Sherlock lounged over to one of the stiff backed chairs in front of his brothers desk and climbed in, feet on the seat and arse on top of the back. Idly he waved his companion into the other chair and together they waited in silence, Sherlock playing on his phone and John sitting upright and uncomfortable.

Mycroft was clearly on edge, so it was no surprise when he stood up to move from behind the desk. Swooping behind Sherlock, the elder Holmes elbowed the small of his brother’s back, sending him toppling down into the seat of the chair so that he sat properly and respectfully. As he returned to behind his desk, he wrapped up the call with a simple, “Understood, thank you.” 

As soon as Mycroft began to lower the mobile the youngest Holmes repeated himself, “It’s the trains.”

“Fascinating, although you made that point already,” Mycroft’s eyebrow flicked up. “Are you going to elaborate? If not, I have news of my own. Adair is dead.”

John gasped and managed to go even stiffer, but Sherlock remained nonplussed, “What’s the point of asking if I’m going to elaborate when you only go on to refuse to give me the option of saying no. You always butt in, you always have to go first.” 

The doctor attempted to hush the consulting detective but Sherlock simply said, “I’m allowed to complain! It’s a waste of breath to say you’re going to give me an option and then not give me the option. He’s a show-off!”

“Well he’s had years to study your work,” cut in John. “Mycroft can you give us more detail?”

“Nice to see you back in the fray, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft smiled amicably, although his tone was biting. 

“We got lucky. He tried testing the waters in the wake of Sherlock’s return, one of my men picked up on it and we were able to move on his safe house before he could vanish again.”

“Because luck is all your men are capable of,” sneered Sherlock, “I don’t know how you function in this place.” He paused to resettle, his wounds stretching a bit, causing John to look consideringly at his back. It was all Mycroft needed to confirm that Sherlock had chosen to hide the extent of his suffering from the doctor. 

“Very well then, what’s next?” Sherlock bulldozed onwards, “We have to move on Moran’s plot.”

“Do you have confirmation that the plot is Moran’s?”

“CCTV footage from the tube show him getting on a train at the station. The train goes along its route and by the time it arrives on camera at the next station, there’s no Moran and it’s short a car.” 

Mycroft’s posture went rigid as his brother described the scenario. 

“I don’t like that at all…” the politician frowned, catching Sherlock’s eyes directly. “Train cars don’t just disappear.”

The consulting detective couldn’t keep the glee from his voice as he replied, “I know. God, I’ve missed this city. He’s planning an act of terrorism with a tube car as his weapon. Ingenious.”

John cut in, “But why?”

“Presumably so that he can target a specific area above ground without being caught. If he wanted to take out a subway car he’d just do it. What station is the surveillance footage from?” Mycroft propped his fingers under his chin thoughtfully, waiting for Sherlock to give him the details he could finish his deduction and they could take action.

Pulling out his notebook Sherlock ripped out several pages of his messy scrawl and handed them over.

“The District line, between Westminster and St. James’s Park,” Mycroft read aloud. His eyes went wide as the information registered and he stood, reaching for his phone. “Sumatra Road...The terrorism bill! We need to act quickly, there isn’t much time.”

Instinctively John stood, ready for action, but the brothers ignored him. 

“Moran or the train?” asked Sherlock with a spark. “Which are your people least likely to ruin?”

“I’ll handle Moran. I’ve no idea what’s waiting in those tunnels, moving in with a team may not be prudent. You can handle it?”

“Come on, John,” Sherlock swept from the room already on his phone as he moved briskly out of the government building. 

[SMS M. Holmes] Thank you. Good luck.

* * *

It was a tense six hours before the elder Holmes finally reached his brother again. Moran apprehended, attack averted, and London safe, Mycroft felt his first wave of relief in months. Settling into his customary chair in the silence of the Diogenes, he sent a brief congratulatory text to his sibling.

[SMS to S. Holmes] It’s over. Welcome home, Sherlock.

Another forty-five minutes passed before a response came through, 

[SMS to M. Holmes] It is, yes so why aren’t you home? 

[SMS to M. Holmes] Bored.

[SMS to M. Holmes] You know it’s rather pathetic for the hero to drink alone afterwards.

[SMS to S. Holmes] ...You’re at my house?

[SMS to S. Holmes] Wait for me before you open any good wine! 

[SMS to M. Holmes] Where else would I be?

[SMS to M. Holmes] I’m drinking your brandy right now. Don’t worry your precious head about your wine. 

[SMS to S. Holmes] Keep the bottle out. I’ll be home within the hour. 


End file.
